I know hospital orderlies and hotel maids seem to have figured it out well enough to keep their jobs, but despite being drawn to drool, I’m still clearly pillowcase challenged. Kind of like gas tanks, logically there should always be a tad more room to top-off, but I never can decipher the secret to stuffing my fat sacks unless we’re talking about socks n’ snacks. The softer and loftier the contents, the worse it is to puff up enough, and NO I’m not talking about my king-sized graying goose-down dome and easily cracked eggshell ego.
First off I don’t think racking and packing crummy pillows should be harder than shoveling yummy bread crumbs into the business end of turkeys for Sunday chow. Why don’t those stupid softies just drop into place easily without tools like batteries in a flashlight? I am sick of trying to cajole frustratingly flaccid cranium cushions into their spit bibs without the aid of a shoehorn and a paint-shaker.
Oddly I never seem to have a problem stuffing ballot boxes or padding invoices especially when I sit on ‘em with the cushion of my tush’n. Apparently my expertise at cramming my caboose into crowded Chinos doesn’t directly translate to handling high thread count cushy linens. Usually with a liberal coating of Crisco and a few minutes in the hot sun, I can slide my hide into almost anything, but pig-headed pillows refuse my persuasions no matter how politely their prodded.
Even though my wife is an expert pillow-pusher, she doesn’t lord her soft skills over my pathetic lack of tough puff-primping prowess and fragile pride. Of course she probably would prefer if like most folks, I could finesse the foam with a little less force and a little more form, but she knows that I have honed and toned other skills which make her life more interesting. You see beyond the cliché killing of bugs, without me, who else would be ready, willing, and able anytime to FILL-up her giant car with GAS for free . . . too bad it’s usually right after a really big beef and Frito green bean burrito!