Today you’re going to be so excited to get your new mattress that you’re going to forget to take out all the drug money you had stuffed in your old mattress before the delivery guys take it away for you. You’ll be rolling around on your new mattress for a good ten minutes before you remember.
“Shoot!” you’ll say. Then you’ll call the mattress store and tell them that you left several hundred thousand dollars in your old mattress and you’d like to know when to come and pick it up.
“Sorry, when we take a mattress away its ours, bedbugs and all,” the mattress associate will tell you.
“But the money isn’t mine,” you’ll say. “It belongs to a drug cartel and if I don’t get it to them, they’ll kill me and everyone I’ve ever cared for.”
“Read your agreement,” the mattress associate will say. You’ll read the delivery agreement you signed, relinquishing all rights to your old mattress once it crosses the threshold from your home.
“Oh, I didn’t realize,” you’ll say. “Sorry to bother you.”
“Yeah well next time,” the mattress associate says, “Realize!”
You’ll hang up, then you’ll rip open your couch to find the semi-automatic weapons you keep there. But you’ll remember that you sold the couch with the weapons on Craigs list. This is your new Crate and Barrel sectional and you haven’t stored any weapons inside it because you wanted it to maintain its support.
You’re going to have to sell all the cocaine you still have in the house and try to make the money back before the cartel comes calling. You tear apart the painting on the wall to grab the kilos stored in its frame. But it’s empty. You must have auctioned off the painting with the kilos hidden in it. This is the new Chagall you just acquired.
“Why must I be so active in the art world yet so forgetful when it comes to drug dealing?” you lament.
You go into the bathroom to take a bath, and you find a small boy. You’d forgotten that you had kidnapped the only son of a crooked Colombian diplomat. All you have to do is get that ransom money and you’re right as rain.
“I got my meal ticket right here,” you say, tousling the boy’s hair. “Now where did I put your Dad’s cell phone number?”
The boy makes a motion like a key in a lock on his lips, letting you know he’s not gonna give you the number. You’d better hope you didn’t accidentally throw out that slip of paper when you cleaned earlier, which is just the kind of airhead thing a drug dealer/kidnapper/art lover like you would do you fucking ditz.
Happy Don’t Forget To Take The Drug Money Out Of Your Old Mattress Before The Mattress Delivery Guys Take It Away For You Day!
