The SoHo Gadabout: I Couch Therefore I Am (a confession)

Listen up SoHo Journal readers; I have a confession to make: Despite all appearances, I am not a good person. I know, I know, for the six or seven of you that actually read my column, this revelation comes as quite a shock. But I’ve come to the realization lately that even though I am not fit for public consumption, I’m still a worthwhile member of society.  Not only that, but also worthy of your envy. It’s true. Here, let me run you through my thought process.
 
I realize I’m not the classic picture of American masculinity. I’m not the hero, I’m not the romantic leading man, I’m pretty sure I’ll never save the day and I creep the living shit out of children and old people. I’m overweight, under achieving, drug abusing and barely Caucasian. In the end I never get the girl, I don’t ever get to ride off into the sunset and I actually did get crabs from a toilet seat: twice.
 
I freely admit it; I am all that is wrong with America. Still, I am worthy of your admiration and envy. Remember that! Accolades await me, of that I am sure. Right now I may be the embodiment of homespun mediocrity, but believe you me; I am on the road to righteous indignation and sex god sainthood. I know this because I saw it in a vision I had whilst binge drinking during my new favorite pastime: couching!
 
Ya see, in the days before the state revoked my privilege to work with children, I used to be somebody. I used to be cool. I used to have hopes and dreams and women aplenty. Before I was an ex- convict I used to be happy go lucky and care free. Back before I let the world rape the innocence out of me I was a doe eyed lil’ lamb content to live loose and tread lightly. O’ the times I had, but that was the past.
 
The present is a different story altogether. In the present I’m a cold, cynical, jaded bastard. I
write a humor column that has no reason or excuse to exist in the same magazine alongside the prescient, political punditry of real writers like
Ed Gold and Trip Plunkitt. I have recently started growing hair out of my shoulders and developed an unreasonable affinity for alliteration. I’m unoriginal and queasy with my wonder years behind me and my angina years bearing down on me. I used to be lean and
mean. “Young dumb and full of cum,” as my Grandma used to always say.
 
But now- now, my body most resembles a jello mold of Grimace and my balls look disturbingly like Sam Elliot after he got the snot kicked out of him in that movie, “Roadhouse”. Don’t get me wrong, I kinda dig Patrick Swayze movies. But, I don’t need to be reminded of a dried up cinema screen cowboy every time I catch a glimpse of my genitalia.
 
Yesterday I was a goofy footed hippie with my head in the clouds and the world spread eagle beneath me. Today I sell hamburgers. I peddle sundaes and shakes with chili fries. I am a schmoozer, an unrelenting kisser of ass and an all too convincing flirt for old ladies. I fry onion rings and manage a staff of pimply faced teenage morons who openly detest me.
 
Fifty soul sucking mother fucking hours a week I get paid to cement a smile on my face and pretend I don’t hate everyone and everything around me. It’s like a punishment dished out in the fourth ring of Dante’s inferno. This is definitely not the life I planned for myself in
college.
 
Speaking of which, in college I once had a very close friend named Jeff something. He
said to me once, “Anthony I bet you go thru friends like underwear.” I thought about that statement a lot over the years and finally decided it was an insult. I also decided he was
right. He was a jerk off and I’m pretty sure he turned out to be a kid toucher, but that pederast son a bitch was right.
 
I used to be a person with a lot of acquaintances rather than friends. Over the years though I’ve learned the importance of friendship. And although I’m stuck in a merciless meat barn for the majority of my time there is a big, bright silver lining: I now have a friend and a super sweet ass new pastime, couching!
 
It’s my only release and my last and only pleasure. I couch with a sloth and slobitude that would put Homer Simpson to shame. I couch free of care or worry. I couch without consequence like my life is on ass support. I couch to live and I live to couch.
 
There was, once upon a time, a point in my life when I actually used to do things. I used to take walks, go to church, I used to meet women and make them laugh with my adorable charm and snarky wit. Nowadays, I just couch. The only women I meet are the few drunk, confused creatures who inadvertently wander into my living room and I just freak them the fuck out. But I don’t care.
 
I have my couch; he’s not only my best friend, but my plush hetero life mate. And believe it or not that’s neither sad nor depressing to me. In fact it’s quite the opposite. I get overwhelmed with joy at the simple thought of my soul mate of a sitting option.
 
We have a very real, very honest relationship. As a matter of fact it’s by far the healthiest relationship I’ve ever been in, with anybody, and that includes my Mother and my car. (Which is a bitchin’ candy apple red ‘85 Camaro with louvers and t- tops, by the way.) My couch baby!
 
It gives so much and asks o so thankfully little in return. It’s got heart and soul; and like a fine thoroughbred super model it’s both soft and firm in all the right places. It more than makes up for the countless indignities I suffer at the hands of a thoughtless universe. After a tough shift at the grease mill I come home to a smiling’ sofa, have a sit and my rump just melts into it like a plump, well fed cherry on top of a sundae.
 
My couch! It’s my personal sanctuary from the horrific absurdity of everyday life. When
I’m riding my stallion nothing else matters except my comfort, which is always considerable and ass numbing. It is a delight to sit back with a blank mind and to just... BE.
 
To be free from thoughts and actions. To be free from the mundane, free from a reality which has left me with cotton mouth and a wicked hangover. To be free most of all to dream about the past and ignite a spark of hope for the future. I couch for that freedom and it redeems me. I couch to keep from tumbling into the abyss and it works. Every day the act of couching holds me back from swan diving off the cliffs of insanity.
 
Well, that’s my life. I work, I couch. Nothing has ever turned out the way I hoped it would and I really could care less, for like I said, I am destined for greatness. So what if I spend my nights sitting around smelling of hamburgers and drug fueled prophetic dreams that make little to no sense?
 
I have my couch and evening after evening as my cheeks brand their groove into my noble steed real life begins to bother me less and less.  And that is the start of the path to true intergalactic rock stardom. To be able to reach the level of Zen apathy my living room lothario helps me achieve without hard drugs or fervid religious zealotry is a glorious thing.
 
So you see kids, you should envy me. Envy me for the effortless ecstasy I am awash in every time I park my posterior on my pillowy pal. No fasting, no tantric trances, no sleep deprivation or LSD, just pure, fast and easy Nirvana. That is sweet indeed. Jealous?  You should be.
 

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