You sell death beds because someone has to. People need to die somewhere and why not let their loved ones buy them a bed to die in that’s more comfortable than the ones in which they’ve lived for years. Your wife thinks differently.
“The only death bed in this town is the one him and I sleep in every night!” she’ll shout tonight to your customers.
“She’s upset,” tell the couple who is about to buy a Last Rest Posturpedic.
Your wife won’t rest in her protest.
“He’s dead inside. I married death itself.”
Stand up and shout, “I married life at its ruin. I married woe.”
She’ll come running at you, holding a bag above your head heavy enough to knock you bloody. Duck and tackle her, tumble forward, breaking your neck and cracking her skull, instantly ending your marriage and your lives, together.
On the Serta Eternity Queen you’ll land, dead. Both of you gone, neither of you left behind. You’ll have landed together, your arms around each other, together to the end on your death bed. You finally got one for free.
Happy Death Bed Salesman Day!
