Tuesday, December 11th, 2018
Admit it. You either hate them or love them. They’re either soft and comforting, or just plain scratchy and bitchy. Ever since you were coerced and pop-forced out of that warm wet hole, you’ve been wondering why that nurse wrapped you in ‘swaddling’ clothes. What the hell? Are we all jesus when we’re born? The transition from the hole to the whole in pink or blue?
In my case – I felt like the damn blue snot rag I was ‘swaddled’ in – was trying to smother me. Apparently, it’s suppose to keep you from developing UTIs, STDs, SIDs or something. [from my intensive fake research on this] But when the nurse took the damn thing off to wipe my ass because I took my first big shit, I felt my penis shrivel to more than nothing it ever was from the deep freeze-dried air.
[And if you haven’t had any kids yet – you’ll find a rainbow of colors – yellow, green, blue, brown – all the damn ones you can think of – even purple].
But I digress.
By the time I was six months old I was holding on to my “Blankie” – as if the new nick-name would make it all comfy cozy, like rocks warming in the sun and I could set my sights on Hollywood.
[I didn’t even know I had rocks yet. They were too small and soft like egg yokes just plopped into a frying pan before heating. And Hollywood was a pipe dream full of Angora Love – where PETA annoys mohair adorned LA Starlets and Nazis overseas.*]
I had to hold on to something – geez – the nurse started this shit. Nurses [and Blankets] are a part of my life ever since day one… but that’s another story.
I digress again.
When I look out my window this morning, I see earth covering itself with a brief new snow-fall. Warming its outer core, keeping the ground from freezing even when it’s fucking cold outside – about ten degrees this morning. Why can’t I keep myself covered completely too, when I’m sleeping?! It’s WAR!
I think back at all the mornings I’ve woke-up and realize blankets started these wars, [in my case the “Sixty-Six and a Half-Years War”] while I was sleeping. THEY – blaming me for my own self-devastation within the vault-crypt of sleep, totally suffered upon my being – lost in dream-land, naked and exposed – ME – tearing at my cashmere chains and mohair cuff-links – SCREAMED:
“IT’S NOT MY FAULT!”
“You were tossing and turning you fidgety narcolept!”
“I WAS NOT! SHUT UP and stop preventing me from creeping you all back over my cold, frozen legs and ass! You bastids!”
“Over your cold dead body – you prick – you were drunk Friday night and WE TOOK ADVANTAGE! POWER TO THE WOOLIES!”
Ever since our own personal ‘cribs’ – you know – our first jail time sentencing for whining and screaming while we held the locked bars. We couldn’t get out and down to the floor. Yes – WAY DOWN – to that damn floor, where we didn’t know it was cold as hell and Satan was providing ice fishing holes for dead elderly people from Florida, to fish where they will eternally rot in that “cold-as-hell place.”
You didn’t realize the “Blanket-Kingdom” had bribed sheep communities in Scotland, to grow enough wool to take over the world – yes WORLD POWER of coverlets over earth’s masses. OH! THE HUMANITY of Quilts, Covers and Throws!
Damn – no comforting comforters for me.
And yes – even this morning – after fighting my way out of bed, ripping the entwined shroud sheaths of the Goths – going to the shower and coming back, I was horror-struck by the carnage displayed by these blanket whacks, wracking upon my own cold-stone bed. Un-recognizable as a bed, what-so-ever. A massacre so complete – I called in the National Guard to mop up the blood-bath and sleep-slaughter! So incensed, I flipped the bird at it and said:
“No fuckin way I’m fixing you, you bastids. I’m not in the army. I’m no fuckin maid. I’m not your Nazi housekeeper lobotomizing your innards to present the masses a corrected whole-bed-ness – when you god-damn well know you’re going to fuck me up again tonight. I’ll jump back into the fray and I’ll show you whose boss. Damn you. Fuck you, you ‘mantles’ of sneaky bed-spreads – you’re no comforters.”
AND THEY SAY YOU NEED 8 – COUNT ‘EM EIGHT HOURS OF THIS SHIT EVERY NIGHT???!!!
Lewis R. Foster
Leo McCarey (story)
H.M. Walker (titles)
Richard C. Currier
December 14, 1929
English (original intertitles)
* A good long read on Starlets and Angoras: https://longreads.com/2018/12/05/the-ugly-history-of-beautiful-things-angora/