Woot Prose

Dedicated to the best of Woot’s witty copy.

Take today’s, for instance. 8-inch, Queen-size memory foam matress


Some mattresses might think the ability to remember would be a blessing. I say it’s a curse.

My luxury body-hugging memory foam is great for the humans who sleep on me. But not for me. I envy those mattresses who can forget. Normal mattresses can shrug off all the regrets and heartbreak. They can approach each night as if it’s their first. But me… I remember.

I remember Bruce.

He wasn’t with Sharon, my owner, very long. She probably hasn’t thought about him in years. But I still bear the scars. The stains from when he fell asleep eating a bowl of chili. The burns and the odor from his foul grape-flavored cigarillos. The dents and ruptures from the ski boots he wore during intimate moments. And of course, of course the scratches from his pet squirrels, Jean-Claude and Urkel.

The memories aren’t all bad. I remember cradling Sharon through the night she lost her job, delivering her comfortably through to morning on a combination of next-generation memory foam and energy absorbing Intellifoam on a polyurethane base. I remember keeping her cool during the blistering summer of ‘07 with my air flow ducts, relieving those uncomfortable pressure points. Those were the good times.

But once you’ve known Bruce, you cannot be un-Bruced. Unless you’re a regular old mattress. Curse you, Memory Foam. I’ll never escape the past.