My mattress might have short-term memory foam loss. It doesn’t seem to remember my recent positions. But what if its long-term memory foam has eroded, too? It might not remember any of my positions, especially the ones from my Golden Age of Recreational Sleeping. I went to the drug store and looked, but I couldn’t find any memory foam. (I thought I might rub some, like Rogaine, on the bed.) I mean, Odysseus returned from his Ten Years Odd-at-Sea and his old mattress remembered him! (It also seemed to remember the positions of various Penelope suitors, but that’s another epic altogether.) To comfort myself in moments like these, I often play a game of Celebrity Stinky / Not Stinky. For example, Bill O’Reilly: Stinky, Pitbull: Stinky, Howard Stern: Stinky, Dr. Oz: Stinky, Mitt Romney: Not Stinky, but dirty in a bright, defensive way, The Offshore Way. I clicked on the television just to catch a snippet of the washed-up boxer responding to allegations that he once ducked an opponent. “I ducked awl hith puncheth,” he said. “Unleth it wuth a ludicrouth attempt like he ran outta the busheth drethed ath a bahbarian in Hannah Bahbaric timeth!” Consider a world with different values, I suppose, if that’ll make you feel better about your lot in life—that, or exchange the word “ice” for the word “beef.” You’d no longer go to the Ice Capades, but to the Beef Capades, instead, and you’d no longer listen to Ice-T and his song “Ice Ice Baby”, but Beef-T, and “Beef Beef Baby”, instead, and you’d no longer recite the poem “Fire and Ice” but “Fire and Beef.” The world will end in beef. Perhaps I’ll go down to the stinky discount mall, you know, the Olfactory Outlet, for some Reverie Foam.