I like sleeping in the nude.
It isn't a mere dalliance in exhibitionism, but a confirmation of my laziness.
It's hotter than Clay Aiken's balls in a bathhouse parking lot outdoors. So I plunge into the crevices of my couch because I'm too damned pooped to hazily unfold my Serta pullout and scrounge around in a stupor for my pajamas.
So in my dream last night, I find Lindsey Turner sitting on my couch jabberjawing about her childhood in rural Tennessee.
My mind is racked with paranoia. Did I remember to turn over the seat cushions and vigorously Febreeze away the possible asshole-and-balls stench?
Lindsey continues to talk, beaming in her Lindsey Turner way.
I get down on all-fours and frantically begin sniffing the couch cushions.
"Continue recalling your childhood," I say.
"What are you doing?"
I sniff a line of couch, convinced that I smell ass.
"I think I dropped some change or something," I say, continuing to snort line after line.
I can't remember much else.