Keep Walkin', Buñuel

An old coffee ad once promised, "The best part of waking up, is Folgers in your cup." That may or may not be true. I haven't really studied the evidence. But it's got to be better than waking up with loose fabric blocking your windpipe.

The other morning, while stretching my aching arms and legs in bed, I took a deep breath and sucked in a piece of blanket that clearly was waiting for an opening to get me -- the opening in this case being my mouth. The day before, I vigorously shook this blanket outside, trying to rid it of schmootz, not thinking that I might be angering the bed covering, primarily since it's an inanimate object lacking a central nervous system, mode of language, memories, regrets, loved ones long gone.

That'll teach me. I should have heeded the lesson of "Planet of the Apes": don't travel to Earth's future if you can help it. God knows what the hell you'll find there. Well, that's human arrogance. Obviously, we as a species have a long way to go.

Anyway, the blanket bit went right down my air hole, and I leapt out of bed, gagging and grabbing my throat. The wife, immersed in Albert Goldman's "The Lives of John Lennon," paid me no mind. My actions differed little from my attempts to initiate sex, and she wasn't in the mood for love, especially while reading about Yoko throwing cat shit at John's head as he snorted heroin off a plaster cast of Harry Nilsson's dick, "Green Acres" blasting from the TV, and baby Sean urinating on the wall, his nanny applauding his creativity.

"GARGGGH! GAGGHHUH! GRRT!"

"Not now, dear."

"GAFFFRRNT! GEGA . . .GURN . . . GAH . . ."

"Oh, put a sock in it!"

She nearly guessed right. But it seemed too late. Oxygen was leaving my brain. The winter morning light swirled around, taking me to an earlier time.



Lord, how I preferred Burger Chef to McDonald's and White Castle. After two bites, their burgers became sloppy, slippery messes, dripping all over your clothes, attracting stray dogs that licked their crusty muzzles, staring at you unblinking, perhaps confusing you for the burger, which was why it made sense to carry an aluminum bat when eating Burger Chef cuisine. Also, my father told me about the facts of life while in a Burger Chef parking lot. Dad tried to explain the mechanics of intercourse between large bites of a Super Chef, but the sloshy mess and crowd of dogs howling and scratching at our car windows made Dad's lesson erratic and hard to follow. This would influence my first attempts to score with Lisa Hudson, whose grip on her aluminum bat tightened with each clumsy pass. But that's another post.

Falling to my knees, I somehow gagged enough to loosen the cloth; and with all the breath I could muster, I finally coughed it out, retching and nearly puking in the process.

"Now, that's more like it," said the wife, flinging Goldman's book aside. "Sing one of your sea ditties, then we'll 'see' what happens."

What a crazy world. I guess that's why they call it "Christmas."