Couch-surfing is dangerous, brah. Not all the time – not when some sweet sleep-leather is available – but last night, my honey and I found ourselves stranded.

This town was dry, and I mean menopausal dry. Nobody had a couch for us: not a cot, not a cushion, not even a cold hard floor. Everybody had a lame excuse – “I’ve got a test tomorrow, man,” or “It’s a Jewish holiday, I’ve gotta light the dreidel,” or whatever. And I was like, “What are you talking about, dude? You’re in college now: Tests and Jewish holidays don’t matter anymore.” But they wouldn’t budge, brah. Not even my best friend.

Before, they were all real generous with us fer sure, but I think they thought we were moochin’ and makin’ a mess. I mean, yeah, brah, I need a little target practice with the toilet, and Tara does too, but c’mon – we’re in college now. Pissin’ directly into the toilet doesn’t matter anymore. We’re in college now.

Anyways, Tara and I had been on Sofari for three weeks, movin’ from couch to couch, just lookin’ for some radical sleep – just livin’, ya know – and this comes out of nowhere. No couch? Bummer. Big bummer. Huuuuuuge bummer.

So I scoped for a quick find. It’s full of bed-sharks and hodads and kooks, but whatever man. I don’t care who’s hosting: It’s the couch that matters. If anything matters in college, it’s the couch.

I found some pretty decent textiles, a few ottomans that were off the Richter and this primo 16-footer that we could’ve shred all night fer sure. But everything was snatched up by our fellow riders on the couch-highway. We had to back down, so we hit the pavement like bums. Not like regular happy bums either, brah, but like bummed-out bums. Massive, mondo bummer.

We hoofed it to Freebirds first. We were gonna buy chips all night, but we ate too fast and were broke by 10. My spirit was broke too, brah.

So whatever, we bailed out and started lookin’ for a bench – the couch of the wilderness. Optimists, dude – that’s what we gotta be. Bad night for benches though. It seemed like every homeless dude from TJ to Vancouver was in town, tellin’ us bad jokes and askin’ for change. Like, “What’s the difference between the big dipper and the little dipper? About 10 million gallons. Got any spare change?”

I gave that guy a pencil, ’cause I didn’t have any change and that was an awesome joke. He must’ve noticed the couch tattoo on my forehead, ’cause he said, “Y’all are couch-surfers, ain’t yeh? Well, there’s one out on the curb on Sabado if you’re interested for the night.” Fer sure, dude! I’m stoked, Tara’s stoked, the bum is stoked cause he’s drunk: It was awesome.

So we head out on Sabado Tarde toward the 6700 block, lookin’ for the messiah. It was beautiful, brah: green and plush and real soft, like an alien’s vagina or something.

It was sad, too, though. Here’s this awesome creature, and somebody just throws it out on the street. Poverty, war, torture – yeah, I get it. We’re humans, and that stuff is totally unavoidable human stuff. But wastin’ a couch? C’mon, dude, we’re not iguanas, or ants, or mules, or Chihuahuas or whatever. We’ve got ethics, right? But seein’ a couch on the street… I don’t know brah, it makes you question some things.

We’re totally wiped out, except for our hormones, so we stop questioning things and start body-to-body surfing. Yeah brah, right in the middle of the street. It was hot. It was really hot. Too hot, actually. It was on fire. We were on fire. The couch was on fire. Some sick dude’s idea of a fun time. Fuckin’ home-wrecker. But at least we rode it one last time before it went to the big comfy place upstairs.

Gnarly, huh? I’m gonna tell that one to the grandkids, if I don’t die too soon. But you never know – couch-surfing is dangerous, brah. Anyways, do you think we could crash at your place tonight? Just for one night? Yeah? Couchabunga!