The more sofas we come across, the more problems we see

Too often when people search for the cause of wars, lawsuits or even headaches, they look for… Too often when people search for the cause of wars, lawsuits or even headaches, they look for financial strain, religious fanaticism or a hangover. In so doing, they overlook the truth. There is a cause lurking beneath everything foul in this world. This modern incarnation of Moloch feeds on us in our living rooms, in hotel lobbies and in psychiatrists’ offices. Rich and poor alike are slapped by the callous hand of fate. And, we call that hand — that succubus, that psychopath, that siren, that sadist — we call her and all of her kind sofas.

It’s easy to misread the sins of the sofa. Once exposed to the idea, people accept that sofas are the root of all suffering in modern society quite naturally because of the plethora of painful experiences we’ve all had involving sofas.

From all manner of drunken humiliations involving sofas and stains to those childhood cushion forts built to lyrics of Vanilla Ice, we associate deep shame with sofas.

Who among us can forget the pure agony of hours spent tied to a sofa, eyelids taped open to ensure that not one moment of the night’s chosen independent family film would be missed? Confessions of sexual preference and repressed artistic fantasies overwhelm the mind of every shrink and every patient whenever that certain style of sofa is spotted.

Powerful as these associations are, they are nothing more than another sheet of plastic to protect the true nature of the sofa. Sofas aren’t responsible for the things that occur on and around them. We choose how to utilize them. Nor does this evil spring from how easily the sofa infiltrates all social classes. There are choices for all incomes: cloth or leather; handmade or manufactured; futon, sleeper or sectional.

I won’t name the sofa demon because it comes in so many seductive forms. Any nation that can support a chain like Bed Bath ‘ Beyond is clearly seeking to be seduced by some vice, and any demon worth its sulfur would maximize its chances.

I don’t hold the sofa manufactures responsible. They, too, are trapped in this spell. It is the obligation of every American to exercise his right to happiness by finding a niche, filling it and becoming obscenely rich. Like drugs and food, the sofa industry creates an ongoing demand. And the manufacturers are simply obliging those of us who are doing the demanding.

What we seek from our sofas is illusion. The sofa is halfway between a comfortable bed and a firm chair. It exists in the limbo between the realm of dreams and sex and the world of courtrooms and board meetings. It’s the seeming resolution of the duality that eventually pulls to pieces every modern mind.

And were we not so comforted by the sofa, perhaps we’d investigate this duality further. We’d break through the barrier demanding that we be patriotic and rebellious, pious and perverse, brilliant and abusive, rich and honest, caring and open-minded. Once free, we wouldn’t need to fight wars, and there’d be nothing to give us headaches.

No more sofas would mean no more sorrow.

Zak Sharif will take your sofa, no questions asked. Just e-mail him at rzs8@pitt.edu. He’s waiting on his futon.