Watergate Waterbeds

 

 

 

In the wake of the Zimmermann debacle I’ve decided to quit my ongoing pursuit of pending literary greatness, cash in my flaccid 401K and open a chain of civic-soporific oriented furniture stores called WATERGATE WATERBEDS, not only because I had sex on a waterbed last week for the first time and it felt like my entire anatomy was sloshing around like cosmic mitochondria sifting through the subtle... surf that is time, but because, here at WATERGATE WATERBEDS we avail the patriotic patron with the opportunity to fall asleep on the truth. Recent WATERGATE WATERBED owner Rebecca Hinder from Onan Prairie, Nebraska notes in a hand-written letter that ever since she invested in a WATERGATE WATERBED she doesn’t mind lying to her husband Herb Hinder about how bad the sex really is. “Our WATERGATE WATERBED really saved our marriage. Herb thinks he’s Casanova, and I don’t feel guilty thinking eensie-weensie thoughts about that store clerk from HOME DEPOT who handed me the caulk after it accidentally fell out of the shopping cart that one time.”

Public school teacher Imogene Wilcox of Koinonos Falls, Michigan notes that she just used to “stay up freckled-tooth and frazzled all hours of the night,” worrying about her students’ who were roughly the same age of Trayvon Martin, but ever since she purchased her WATERGATE WATERBED. “It’s like I’m numb to everything. I know if any of my students do find themselves in a sort of pickle, I have faith in the legal system to do the right thing.”

And so the good book won’t slip out of the sheets in the middle of the night, if you order now, your WATERGATE WATERBED will come replete with a bible belt.

So make the political choice and choose WATERGATE WATERBEDS. After all, if you were born in the late-seventies you were probably conceived on one and, like your current mattress, the truth can sometimes be hard to sleep on.

After all, it’s the American Dream.

Went for a long tortuous drive through the vernal exclamatory-shaped corn husks dotting the dun haze country side that is Fulton county. Stopped at a Casey's gas station somewhere near Banner marsh and picked up two six packs, a cup of grainy coffee and some cheap cigars. Found a desolate dirt road and followed it for about 45-minutes into the cricket-oratorio oblivion that is rural Illinois at winking dusk in mid July, sweat aligning my brow like beads on an abacus. The moon was an ivory enhanced magnified toe-nail clipping boomeranging overhead and the West was an incendiary sip of left over birthday party Tang. In the middle of nowhere I stopped the car, got out, took off my shirt and just started screaming, howling, cursing, Sylvia Plathing-out-of-control, casting imprecations of eternal impotency on the people I love who have really hurt me, the lovers who have abandon me, the friends' who have fucked me over, the makeshift nest of mistakes I have made. I screamed for five minutes as loud as I could, a koan of sorrow and loss. I then had a beer and forgave those I had damned, those that I love. Forgave myself. Driving away, severing the rearview mirror above the dashboard because now, after all this time, after all this hurt, I don't want to look back.

Phuck yeah, that felt good. That felt really good.