Do you ever feel like you are trapped in bed by a Japanese bed demon? I do.
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"If I woke up and couldn’t get out of bed, like physically couldn’t leave my bed - was held in by some sort of force field, I would assume that my bed was haunted by some sort of Japanese bed demon. I would know the only person to call, the only person to turn to for help, someone who has dealt with this kind of thing before… Yoko Ono. Yoko would come to my bedside. She would say, "John had this same problem. You have fears. You have regrets." Then she would strip off all her clothes and get into bed with me. As we lay there spooning, I would think out loud, "This is strange. I never thought I would find myself spooning naked with an 80 year old Japanese woman." She would say, "Is that one of your fears?" "No." She would pet my arm with her paper like, her soft crumpled-many-times paper skin fingers. "Then sleep. We have a long journey tomorrow." "What?" We cant go anywhere. I’m trapped in this bed. Remember?" "Shhh…" In the morning she would hand me a dose of acid. "I’ve never done acid." She would purr, "You will do acid if you ever want to get out of bed again." "Why?" "Because it is on of your fears. Losing your mind… If you lose your mind and find it again, you won’t be as scared to lose it again." I would take the acid. "Crawl under the covers with me," Yoko would command me, as she turned her flat, wide, octogenarian butt into my face, and crawled under the covers like a burrowing badger. I would turn and follow her. On and on we would crawl. "We should have fallen off my bed by now." "Weeds grow deep roots." "My fears?" " Yes." I would start to cry in the faint light filtering through my sheets, the moist used air of the under covers world sticking in my throat with each sob. Yoko would turn and say, "I know those tears." "You do?" I would choke out. "Those are the tears of uncertainty." She would hug me. "The only certain thing in the world is uncertainty." We would crawl on until we reached a cavern of my bed sheets. There in the cavern would be Steve Agee. "Steve Agee?" "No," the bed demon would reply," I’m not Steve Agee. I am the Japanese Bed Demon, Waruibeddo." "If you are a Japanese bed demon, why aren’t you Japanese?" I am what all Japanese fear, being a big lazy American that can’t get out of bed, a sitter, a lay about," he would announce with pride. "But Steve Agee does stuff." "Japanese people don’t know that," Yoko would explain. "What do I do now? Fight him?" "No. We cannot fight our fears and regrets. We can only learn to live with them." Suddenly the Japanese Bed Demon would snort, and the images of me laying in bed masturbating, sitting on the couch watching Murder She Wrote, and lazying around drinking beer would fill the cavern. "I do more than just that stuff." "Don’t tell him or me. Tell yourself," Yoko would implore me. "I DO MORE THAN JUST JERK OFF AND WATCH MURDER SHE WROTE!" I would erupt from under the covers gasping for real air. Yoko Ono would slowly get out of bed and put on her stonewashed jean shorts and mesh Ocho Cinco jersey. "You." I would start to get out of bed, but Yoko would stop me. "That’s the wrong side." I would keep going with a laugh, "I’m not worried." "Very good," she would say before giving me a deep, dry, withering kiss. "Was that one of your fears?" "It is now." We would laugh uncomfortably, not because we would be uncomfortable with each other, but because our time together would be over. And that’s why I hope I am never trapped in bed by a hidden force field from a Japanese Bed Demon named Waruibeddo.”