Sleep Tight, Terri

Praise the heavens for the glorious daylight savings “fall back” this past weekend – without it, perhaps I’d have only frittered away thirty-nine hours of my ever more precious life instead of a nice, round forty.


Yes, I’ve taken to spending increasingly large, single stretches of time sitting or lying on my couch doing absolutely nothing of value – no books, no computer, no television (for fear that I might accidentally channel surf into something of intellectual value), no video games. The only two activities I permit myself during these two-day slouchfests are eating, and watching movies that, by anyone’s standards, could never be mistaken for anything but mind-numbing swill.


Unfortunately, in my personal DVD collection, that rule essentially limits me to the Burt Reynolds’ Mustache mega-set I picked up for twelve bucks at a flea market three years ago, which includes such immutable classics as: Stroker Ace, Hooper, Smokey and the Bandit II AND III, and, of course, both Cannonball Runs. Undeniably, some of the most gloriously vacuous schlock ever committed to celluloid; with star vehicles like these, it’s hardly a wonder that Burt’s mustache’s career took a turn down David Carradine Way.


But while re-familiarizing myself with the canon of Burt’s mid-80s work – specifically, during the crucial scene in Stroker Ace when Burt’s title character light-heartedly juggles the pros and cons of date-raping Lonnie Anderson -- I felt something snap loose in my brain, and, just as suddenly, a calm washed over me.


I had reached a state of Zen known as moo-shim, which translates to “nothing in the mind”. It is a marvelous way to be. Time means nothing -- hours become minutes; minutes become seconds; and seconds become just another slight crest on my nearly flat-lining brainwave. No working, no bathing – hell, no activities requiring any feat more strenuous than digging crotch-sludge from between my thigh and balls (and occasionally sniffing it) is permitted during this period of lowered consciousness. The drool stain pooling on my couch pillow is the only reliable measure of how long I was under. Assuming half-an-inch diameter of drool stain per hour (I have studied the diffusive properties of drool on textiles in the past, and know this to be fairly accurate), I estimate that I was in “meditation” for almost two full days.


Terri Schiavo is a lucky woman to have known this bliss for the past thirteen years. I only pray that when my brain finally shuts down, my family and friends will have the good sense to blend up a few microwave burritos in my IV drip and allow me to enjoy my vegetation in peace. I’ve stuffed enough coin in the coffers of the insurance companies – don’t put me out of the game just before I win my money back.