You Have Served Me Poorly, Futon, And Now You Must Die

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It appears your treachery has caught up to you at last, Futon.

You are a stinking mess. Is this human hair? Is this tomato sauce? Is this a ten-cent Euro coin grafted to a gummy worm? You cling to garbage like a junkie to the needle, Futon.

You are difficult to convert into a bed, and that is a disgrace. Converting should be a sixty-second, one person job, not an episode of American Ninja Warrior.

As a sleeping surface, you leave everything to be desired. These metal slats that poke through your cushion and dig into my back are preposterous! A good futon should support the back, not violate it. In the code of the futon, digging into the back is a capital offense, and you are guilty as sin.

A good futon is pleasing to the eye, utilitarian, cozy. You are cramped, heavy, and covered in dog bite marks. A good futon makes your guests say, “Nice futon!” I have no guests anymore, and it is because of you.

First, you ruined my date with Brianna. The moment she saw you she recoiled in disgust, complained about being “tired,” and promised to “text me later.” Brianna was beautiful and a very successful blogger, and you killed our blossoming romance, Futon.

Then I threw a birthday party for my friend Peter, but no one would go into the living room. When I asked them why, they said, “There is a big piece of garbage in there, and it terrifies us. We are leaving now, goodbye”

Finally, my manager Douglas spotted you in the background during a team video Skype. He removed me from the project, Futon, and I became a laughingstock in my own company. I had to quit my job and find a second income through Airbnb. But I received so many poor reviews due to you that I had to flee there as well.

You showed me a vision of paradise: a place that could be both living room and bedroom. Your vision was a lie. Then the IRS denied my home office deduction because no room that contains a bed can be an office. Oh, the travesty.

I bought you when I was a graduate student, thinking you were “cheap.” Little did I know, I would pay for you most dearly. But now, Futon, it is you who shall pay dearly!

I have thought about burning you and dancing on your ashes. Or hiring a concert pianist to play a funeral dirge while I sink you in a lake. But these endings are too good for you, Futon. Instead, you shall have the worst fate of all: I shall post you as a “Free Item” on Craigslist.

Perhaps you will be poached by some frat bros. They will “party” with you, Futon. Are you ready for spills of cheap beer, urine, and god knows what else? Or perhaps you will be picked up by a hipster handyman who will chop you up and use you for parts in his steampunk loft. Oh, the humiliation.

If you are lucky, then you shall depart this mortal cushion and make your passage into the Land of Dumpster. But not before you suffer as I have suffered. To the wolves with you, Futon. May the furniture gods have mercy on your soul!

Let these be the last words you shall hear from me, Futon: I am replacing you with a sectional.

***

Picture from Flickr licensed under CC 2.0

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Written by

Alex Baia is a humor writer and contributor to McSweeney’s and Slackjaw. He lives in Austin, TX.