So, I hear youse can’t sleep. You been tryin’ and tryin’, but the Sandman, that lil’ prick, he ain’t comin’. Who knows why? That’s neither here nor there. Good news is I can help ya with your lil’ problem. Now relax. Take it easy. Breathe in tru ya nostrils there. Out tru ya trap.

First thing you wanna do is get y’self a waterbed. One of dem round jobs. You stretch out on that sucka and any aches and pains you got just drift away — that broken rib from your barroom boxing days back in Albuquerque or that time Bertha the Bull shish-kabobbed your lung. Gone. Like it never happened.

What’s that? You can’t afford a waterbed? You sayin’ you can’t provide for the family? That’s a fuckin’ shame. Fuckin’ disgrace, y’ask me. But hey, whadda I know, right? Maybe youse got alimony payments. Child support up the ying-yang. Workin’ two, tree jobs. Bustin’ ya hump. Irregardless, let’s see if we can’t get you some shut-eye.

Okay, fuck the waterbed. Lay off the hooch. Give the nose candy a rest. Devil’s Dandruff, we called it. One night on set, Pacino came stumblin’ out his trailer in his silk robe lookin’ like Casper the Shit-Faced Ghost. Now there’s a guy who never slept, lemme tell ya. He needed all kinds of pills and potions to konk out. You don’t want that. So that’s it, step one: Clean out ya system. Maybe youse wanna pause this and come back when ya ready.

A’right. Now. I’m gonna assume you’re ready to take this shit seriously. But we all know what happens when we assume, right? Make an ass outta you. Me. Everybody. Let’s not go down that road. Okay. Deep breaths now. In tru ya nostrils there. Out tru ya trap.

Let’s pretend ya someplace peaceful, right. Like a fuckin’ beach. Clear sky. Bright sun. Nice pair of Bermuda shorts. Coupla broads in bikinis rubbin’ ya neck and shoulders. Class, pure class. This is back when men were men – that goes without sayin’. No SPF. No Facebooks. No fruity little cans of hard seltzer. Hard seltzer. That’s a little, uh, waddayacallit, oxymoronical, no? Nah, in this fantasy, you’re sippin’ a nice martini, steak dinner with all the trimmin’s right there in front of ya. Maybe one of dem nice broads comes around and gives ya a tug while you’re eatin’. Too good to be true? Not for you, my friend.

So there you are, watchin’ the tide like Mr. Otis Redding. You see a flock of boids flyin’ in a V overhead. Geese, maybe. A light breeze blows across your brow there. The sun is warm. The sand is soft. Your ass is like fuckin’ mush. You’re content. You’re breathin’ good now. Maybe — I dunno — maybe your breathing is like the tide. In, out. In, out. You ever think about that? S’cuse me. Sometimes, ya know, sometimes late at night I get a lil’ poetic or whatever the fuck ya wanna call it.

Nothing to do but lay there. Reminds me of that flick Misery, ’member that one? Guy like me, physique like mine, in a fuckin’ bed 80% of the movie. What a waste. Not many people know this but they originally gave the part to Warren Beatty, but he couldn’t hack it. Once I found that out — that this Hollywood pretty boy had the audacity, the unmitigated gall, to walk away from a role in the middle of production, fuckin’ up everybody’s schedule, takin’ food out the mouths of union workers — once I heard all that, I said, fuck it, crack my legs like toothpicks, lay me up, do whatever ya gotta do.

You’re like a pig in shit now, ain’t ya? You don’t even need me anymore. Okay, let’s give ya a proper send off. Breathe in — one, two, tree. Breathe out — one, two, tree. All your worries slip away. All those pencil-dick bastids from the neighborhood asking for money once you hit the big time. All those ex-wives commiseratin’. All your ungrateful kids who don’t call no more. Scrape ‘em off. This is about you and you alone. In tru ya nostrils there. Out tru ya trap. Before ya know it — bada-bing! — you’re snoozin’.