My Pillow Equals My ZZZZZZZZ

     I can always tell when it's a cold winter night in New Hampshire.  My old pal The Skipper, with the wife out of town and perhaps over served, goes off on an extended email rant that is far more entertaining than anything I can find on TV.  I enjoy and applaud most of his insightful observations on everything from his days at sea to our national debt, the sorry state of politics, the uselessness of the Voice of America and Public Television to the dearth of critical thinking and the decline of morals in our nation.  He's like Bluto, of Animal House fame, I never want to stop him when he's on a roll.

However, last night, in a very smooth transition from what a crapload network television has become, he veered off on a tangent about Mike Lindell and his multi-million dollar My Pillow empire.  He wrote, "I listened to the My Pillow ad from that clown in Minnesota after being totally saturated by those ads and I bought one.  The radio guys said how great it was and I took it hook, line and sinker.  I have neck issues and it was major BS.  (editor's note: that's the beauty of radio.  You don't have to dress up and you can lie your ass off.)  If you did not get My Pillow, save yourself some money.  As Hitler's Nazi propaganda minister Goebbels said, 'say it enough and they believe it.'  He was totally right."

The Skipper went on to say that the My Pillow did nothing for him and that sleeping on it was like sleeping with your head on a bag of marbles.  I was stunned.  I'll admit that I was late to the My Pillow party but after hearing my wife rave about hers for over a year I broke down and ordered one about four years ago.  I was prepared to hate it and anticipated delivering up a big old "I told you so" upon demonstrating its inadequacy to my wife.  I can still remember putting my head down that first night. The scene went something like this:  "Man this is the most uncomfortable pilllllllZZZZZZZZZZZZ.  I was out in less than a minute.  I still don't know how it works but can't quarrel with the fact that the damn thing seems to do the trick for me.  Perhaps Mr. Lindell is loading up his product with crack?  (He was an admitted addict at one time.)  For whatever reason, it appears to work for me, though I know there must be others out there in The Skipper's camp.

Keep making those fine pillows Mr. Lindell!  Just do me one favor.  Stay the hell out of your commercials.  You have the acting chops of a Minnesota picnic table.  (Sorry picnic tables.)  I don't know what you're stuffing in those tickets to dreamsville, (chloroform?) just keep 'em coming.  I'll urge the Old Skip to reconsider his probably hasty decision to abandon your fine product.  Perhaps a few freebies sent his way?

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's nap time.