It's insane to buy a mattress sight unseen.
...and I'm insane.
But I'm also sure that the big dips on either side of our old pillow top mattress are doing my back and joints no favors. It's molded the shape of my hip and butt right proper. Size dainty. Not to mention that our bed frame has begun to squeak during marital maintenance.
Sam's Club online has lulled me with memory foam, the assurance of thirteen 5 star reviews and $24 shipping. They are throwing in the bed frame and the dust ruffle too.
Hopefully, instead of squeaking , the new frame moans or, better yet, makes encouraging commentary. Commentary like, "You're a snorting wild stallion, you beast you." and "When you lay in that come hither position nothing looks droopy." I think everyone needs a bedstead that actively improves their confidence.
I won't push it by praying that ten to twenty pounds of our collective body fat will melt away while we sleep.
Next comes the hard part. Since I live in Nevada Casino Hell, what kind of white trash use can I put the old mattress and box springs to?
We don't own a trampoline. The way my backyard is situated a trampoline would serve as a launching pad to propel my children up onto my roof or impaled on my gate. A mattress on the ground would be far safer to jump on, that is until one of them impales themselves on a loose bed spring. If my children do this thing right and if I can make a good enough excuse to my home owner's insurance, one of the neighbor's kids will poke themselves in a painful yet satisfactory way.
Maybe we'll strap the thing on the roof of our fabulous mini-van, driving around the fountain by the golf course, playing Huck Finn and Jim up there. It'll be my way of supporting the Tea Partiers and their views on Planned Parenthood.
Crossbow practice...with my homemade medieval style crossbow and bolts made out of soup cans. Or maybe with those ninja stars I bought in bulk off Home Shopping. My ninja skillz make grandma cry.
Community theater reenactment of "The Burning Bed". We'll invite a nearby neighbor to play the Farrah Fawcett part because he keeps walking around with his tshirt tucked under his moobs.
I'm turning the box spring over, tearing off the scrim, filling it up with soil and I'm planting petunias in it. Then I'll get my flamingo on.
Shields for our illegal fireworks show. Quick, chuck the cherry bomb before you shred your fingers into potted meat.
In all likelihood we'll just take the old set to the dump after spray painting, "Got asked, Got told!" across it. Hopefully the second letter G will be placed on my bum divot. It'll fit in there nicely.
Yes, my dumb gay cat Booger is still missing. Thanks to everyone that has shared my worry.
Monday, September 26, 2011
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