Pillow Talk

Albert Einstein needed 12 uninterrupted hours of it every single night of his life. Thomas Edison and Teddy Roosevelt got by on only four. Studies indicate the average individual requires eight hours.

Naturally, I refer to the time each of us spends watching Bravo’s Real Housewives of….

Actually, I am referring to sleep—certainly the least-understood of the body’s requirements, with the possible exception of our craving for candy corn and beer nuts.

Even more intriguing than sleep itself is why a mature adult would ever consider sharing his or her bed with another person.

When sleeping next to another mass of protoplasm, advanced camouflage techniques should be mandatory, because a sleeping human is no visual picnic.

I myself like to go to bed wearing a fluffy bunny or adorable flying squirrel outfit. Perhaps this is why my ex-“bitter half” insisted on introducing me as his insignificant other.

Well! He’s one to talk. What men resemble most when they’re asleep is a corpse with epilepsy—with their eyeballs doing the mambo, and their breath capable of blasting condors out of their nests.

And the average woman? Well, dozing by the side of this prehistoric ape may be his lovely mate, resplendent in a filmy negligee. With all due respect, Victoria’s secret is that she snores like a moose, while drooling all over her pillow.

Folks, what we have here are two hideous snoozing gargoyles locked in a fight-to-the-death battle over the bedding, while totally comatose with absolutely no control over most bodily functions.

Women may be considered the less-aggressive sex during the day, but they’re a tad less docile at night. Once upon a mattress, a woman immediately forms a cozy protective cocoon out of every last sheet, blanket, and comforter.

This leaves the typical man shivering wildly in nothing but his stained jockey shorts, which typically are seven years old and four sizes too small. Freezing to death, he spends the rest of the evening searching for enough kindling to start a modest bonfire.

It had always been my sad fate to lose not only the covers, but also the very bed itself to my ex-hubby. We were a civilized couple, so the night began with roughly equal sleeping areas, and a mutual best wishes for a sound night’s sleep.

But as soon as the lights flitted out, a vicious, full-scale sneak attack was launched upon my sovereign territory. Within a matter of moments, I found the phone cord wrapped around my larynx in a hangman’s knot, and my fat ass wedged snugly into the top drawer of the nightstand.

After being extricated from my furniture with the Jaws of Life, I rejoined my “beloved” on our Sealy Torturepedic. Always thinking of me, the little darling was muttering to himself in the throes of a terrifying nightmare, and lashing out with a flurry of right hooks, followed by an impressive series of powerful roundhouse kicks.

After finally passing out from the pain, I was startled awake by what I believed to be a prowler. This prowler detection was a new major league record, the 3,837th consecutive night I had sensed an invisible intruder from another galaxy. It broke the old record set by a Kentucky woman who blamed all her personal problems on an uncontrollable fear of stray possums.

I didn’t move a muscle. I was in no condition to fight a prowler. I hadn’t slept a wink, but my hopeless ex was now in a coma. I was still recovering from a stray kick, and, other than my body odor, I kept no weapons in my bedroom.

If someone was really there, how scared could he be of a nearsighted limping old lady, clad in a flying squirrel outfit, trying to fight him off with a Stephen King paperback and a clock radio?

So, was it my destiny to stumble through life in a perpetual haze brought on by night upon endless night of sleep deprivation?

Hell, no, I said! I ditched the husband.

Unfortunately, I replaced him with a hyperactive and paranoid watchdog that—all through the night—makes it his business to alert me with his claws every time a flea farts.

What next? Bedbugs?

Oh, hell, consider the source here, and just pass the Ambien.

Bye for now.
Kiss, kiss.

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