COLUMN: Throw pillows aren’t appropriate

My decorating philosophy is more Panda Express than Feng Shui.

For all I know, Art Deco handed me my punch card for McDonald’s iced coffees at the drive-thru. And if that’s the case, Art needs his ass kicked, because he only gave me one M-shaped punch – I bought two coffees, Art. So if you’re reading this, Art Deco, I will exact my revenge in an excruciatingly painful way that will make waterboarding look like a Slip ‘n’ Slide commercial – the one with the splash pool at the end.

It was a random statement by my buddy J that got me onto all this interior design garbage.

“I was thinking about this the other day, my apartment is decorated like an elementary school book fair,” J said to me over the phone.

“Oh really,” I said, thinking he’d already stopped stealing “Where the Wild Things Are” posters from local elementary school libraries.

“Yeah. The ‘Anchorman’ and ‘Team America’ posters are great for me, but girls would hate this apartment.”

“If she’s coming back to my apartment, she’s usually drunk enough that she can’t clearly see the ‘Simpsons’ posters and -“

“Or she’s blind, I mean, she is going home with you, right?”

“Wise ass.”

I wish we would have said those last three lines. It would’ve been much wittier, more like a good sitcom, if we had. What we did start talking about was how ridiculous our apartment decor was.

Before he went to Wyoming, I lived with J for two years and remember thinking his room was killer. Hilarious movie posters. A poster of The Darkness – rest in peace. Since the move, things have only gotten better. A non-functional clock with a bikini-clad hottie bending over a Shelby Mustang. Some Carl Edwards NASCAR memorabilia. A poster of John Elway. Solid.

Of course it is – to me. And probably to any other member of Team Awesome. But what do I know?

My room’s design consists of a beer wall, a wall devoted to the Denver Broncos, and a music wall – complete with the sleeveless women’s Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt with the golden slogan “Support Southern Rock” on the back that I was drunk enough, or smart enough, to wear to a .38 Special concert, and have yet to wash. All I’m missing is the all-important cleavage/nudity wall but, my room still rocks. I should be on “Extreme Home Makeover.”

J would agree I’m an interior design genius. Females, on the other hand, would puke.

When a girl walks into a room she expects things.

1. A padded board with ribbons holding up pictures of friends making silly faces. Facebook has tried to replace these picture holders, but the paddy, ribbony thing is still a crucial female design element.

2. Some sort of plant or octopus-like lighting mechanism – I think Greek mythology would call it a hydra. Often, to give a Studio 54/disco feel, these electric palm trees have different colored lamp shades to cast reds and greens and blues everywhere.

Guys are too old school for that bull. They build fire pits instead. We get the light and heat of the flame, and with the added bonus of playing with lighter fluid and matches.

3. Some pastel color – somewhere. It doesn’t matter, but it must constantly be Easter.

4. An abundance of pillows.

Pillows are fluffy. They are comfortable. They can be used as non-deadly weapons. But girls also use the 36 throw pillows – and if I understand this right, that aren’t even used for sleeping – to finish off the room’s decor. Guys are just confused by the idea of the non-essential pillow.

I recently tried to sleep in a hotel bed that had seven pillows, two real and five decorative. I say tried to sleep, because – being completely clueless about this whole throw pillow nonsense – I spent the night attempting to utilize all seven of the bastards. You’d think more pillows equals more comfort, wrongity wrong wrong. I had two between my legs – one at the knee and another at the ankle – one underneath each arm, two under my head, and I had to stick this cylinder one down the leg of my boxers because I ran out of other ideas.

Throw pillows are bringing down America, one duvet cover at a time – and yes, I had to look that word up. Otherwise I would have called it the blankie thing.

I’ve lived most of my life thinking women didn’t want to come to my house because I didn’t shower or I was crass or they’d seen me in the same pair of sweats for the last five days. Now I know it’s because my living quarters don’t have any of those four things. Phew.

In my environment, females feel like a metal head at a Phish concert – completely out of place, sort of angry and building towards a contact high. You can’t surround a girl who is used to fluffy pastels, pictures of her prom dress and a virtual fortress of useless, frilly pillows with posters of Zakk Wylde.

Sure, we all think the poster of the squirrel’s nuts – not the ones he had to gather – is hilarious. But few things -bunk beds, a “My Little Pony” collectors set, yada yada -turn down the sexual flame more than rodent testicles. And girls won’t think the 24-inch inflatable penis with the smiley face that dangles from your living room ceiling is funny, either. They’ll be creeped out or you’ll have set a standard you just can’t measure up to.

If girls can get past the living room decoration, you’re lucky or really attractive – I’m rarely either one. But in the unlikely occurrence you have to show them other parts of your residence, you’re still not out of the woods.

Maybe people do this, or maybe it was just J and I, but for a whole year, we had our bathroom decorated. It wasn’t sea shells or a nautical theme -our theme was breasts. We had pictures over our toilet, which, in retrospect, wasn’t a good place – their gazes weren’t conducive to a stress-free urinating environment.

Now my bathroom is just decorated with a shave-gel-and-detached-facial-hair mosaic that I think resembles the painting of the poker-playing dogs.

The bathroom isn’t the most awkward part of my tour. It’s easy to explain away bathroom things, like stray hairs and stains, as natural processes or chalk it up to bad aim. It’s much harder to explain to someone why you have a picture of Jesus hanging over your kitchen sink.

None of us know where Dishwashing Jesus came from, he was here before we were. My calling him Dishwashing Jesus may be a little deceiving, he doesn’t help with the dishes, in a physical sense. Instead, Dishwashing Jesus provides moral support and guidance about brush selection. He tells parables about Dawn extra-strength dish soap and doesn’t judge, even though he knows the crock pot has been in the sink for three weeks.

As confused as we are about Dishwashing Jesus, I’m sure he’s just as confused about us. I imagine him wondering if the stack of dishes is some kind of omelet-crusted alter. I have a theory that he’s doing some kind of silverware miracle, because our silverware supply seems to double weekly.

Where was I going with this? Oh, yes, I remember.

A guys’ apartment doesn’t have any sort of continuity or theme – just a collection of things they think are awesome. We happen to think Will Ferrell is funny, beer tastes good and is refreshing, scantily-clad women are classy, the Broncos rock and Jesus is awesome. Oh, and we’re definitely anti-throw pillow.

– da.bake@aggiemail.usu.edu