Organ Grinder:
News for Pervy Little Monkeys

The first thing you need to know is that it's red. Not that merlot/burgundy Concho-y-Toro type red, but RED. Fire engine RED. '72 Camaro RED. Ten-dollar blowjob RED. If my futon were a lipstick it would be Wet n' Wild brand, two bucks a tube, guaranteed to peel from your lips like wax from ripened cheese. The kind of lipstick you only buy in your severest 'I'm-horny-except-I-hate-absolutely-everybody' PMS kind of mood. Ha-Ha, world I'll show you: I'll buy this christforsaken orange-red cheap-ass lipstick. I know you want me. Fuck you.

The second thing you need to know is that it's easily twelve years old. That's one hundred and forty eight in futon years. I have the Queen Mum of futons: Ancient, gaudy, and often liberally soaked. I have the Old Yeller of futons, there's no getting around it: one day I'm going to have to take the old girl behind the barn and put her down. No soul will mourn her passing. Here's an interesting tidbit I recently discovered while searching the web for innovative ways to dispose of the remains: FUTON is actually Japanese for 'flattened sack of excrement.' It's true. All this time I thought it meant "recurring lower back pain."

During my quest for a non-incriminating method of disposal, I thought for a while that I might cut my futon up into little pieces and auction them off like graffitoed segments of the Berlin Wall. Each piece would come with documentation: "Come stain, 1992, notorious poet, extremely drunk." or "Hash Burn, 1996, power outage, reading Geek Love" or "Wax mark, 1998, freaky games, none of your business." I finally decided against it, mostly because I don't want to think that hard about where that baby has been. (I want a nice funeral, something tasteful, no religious service.) I thought I might cremate the thing, but I'm afraid it's become a biohazard. I fear that putting a match to it might unleash some hellish B-movie chemical reaction, causing corpses to rise from the grave to point bony fingers at former lovers, moaning "I warned you to air it out once in a while. Now I must eat your brains." I'm sorry, I just can't be held responsible for that.

Regular readers will know that I have been deeply affected by world events of late. Like all of my friends, I am trying to find a way to do my part for the war effort. As an artist, marrying soldiers and making babies are not on my agenda, so I decided to follow the advice of our esteemed leadership and …go shopping. Futon shopping. Now before you write me off as an idiot, understand this: I live in a one-room studio in a garage. If I actually got a real box spring mattress through the door, it would take up two thirds of my living space, space that I need for practicing strange pagan rituals, so BACK OFF, smarty pants. (Also, I'm cheap.)

I chose a beautiful model - chrome arms and legs, perfect for sweaty-palmed gripping and light bondage. Eleven layers of cotton, wool, and foam. (Spinal Tap moment: my futon goes to eleven.) That's ten more than the one I have at home. The really amazing thing is that they WEIGH exactly the same. (Frankly, it's disturbing. I have no desire to know what's contributing to the unlikely density of the elder mattress.) In the meanwhile, the old red monstrosity resides in the middle of my 'living room' (that being the six feet between the foot of my bed and my kitchen table.) It looks like a giant red burrito, suffering from depression. In its sedentary way, with its surly attitude, it bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain former roommate. Something has to be done. So how 'bout it? Anyone want a somewhat storied futon? I'll even autograph it: "Keep it Funky…love, Cass"

One final note: Folks who remember my column on female ejaculation will be happy to hear that I have found the ultimate solution to odorific bedroom funk: Naugahyde. That's right, I have a black naugahyde futon cover. No more worrying about soaking the mattress ticking. Goodbye to the stigma and the stink of rubber sheets. I could come purple Kool -Ade if I felt like it. Just a little wipe with a bath towel or an old spare quilt… and snap! Dry as a bone. And that's a good thing.