Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Check your text messages to find out

This morning over Cheerios I read yet another article about texting, the smart-phone phenomenon which allows communication via long distance without all the bother involved in using your mouth. Instead, you punch a whole bunch of little keys (either real or virtual) to send messages like “Ill se u ths aftrrrnon aroud 5,” which, allowing for typical texting typos, probably means, “The FBI has your house surrounded and they’re getting ready to toss in the tear gas canisters.”

The article didn’t mention typos, though. And for once it wasn’t another heated diatribe calling for the abolition of A) teenagers texting while driving, B) teenagers texting each other naked pictures, C) teenagers texting each other racy messages, or D) teenagers doing all the other fun stuff adults can’t do because our bodies are shot and we no longer look good naked, even on tiny cell-phone screens.

The article was about a recently-discovered behavior exhibited by some teens called sleep texting. That’s right, sleep texting.

So far Dr. Jason Coles—the “sleep medicine expert” cited in the story—has witnessed this behavior only in teens, but in time it’s sure to spread to older members of society. Sleep texting is exactly what it sounds like; texting in your sleep.

Now, I don’t know about you, but the text messages I receive—mostly from my kids, who don’t realize a phone also can be used for voice communication—are for the most part decipherable, if not exactly typo-free. This is not the case with sleep texting, according to Dr. Coles. Coles says texts created while “half awake, half asleep” can make no sense, some sense or more sense than the sender would likely be comfortable with.

In short, a sleep text may reveal a hidden truth. The same can probably be said of drunken texting, which people do all the time, at least the sort of people I hang out with. I don’t know how many “I love you, man!” texts I’ve received from my buddy Jake over the past three years, all of them sent sometime after 2:30 a.m. He usually goes on to describe how he’s going to kick my (expletive) if I don’t immediately get down to the A) bar, B) VFW Hall, or C) strip club to “hang” with him.

I hope this sleep texting thing doesn’t begin to affect Jake. I do not want to be privy to the abnormal thoughts percolating in his murky subconscious.

In fact, I don’t want to receive sleep texts from anyone. I’m sure my son’s subconscious is still mad at me over the time I smacked him upside the head for lipping off to his stepmother. (I’m not proud of it, but it happened.) And I know my daughter’s subconscious would have a few things to say about the time I yelled at her when she spilled grape juice all over the carpet while I was in the middle of hanging wallpaper. She was only five, but I yelled anyway and made her cry. I’ve felt guilty over that for years, but that doesn’t mean I want to read about it in the first chapter of her tell-all book, written entirely in her sleep.

My Sweet Annie’s phone has no text messaging capability and frankly, I’m glad. We had a quarrel last night and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know what she was really thinking about me after the lights went out.

I don’t sleep text myself, but now I’m worried I might. I think I’ll leave my phone in the kitchen at night, just to be on the safe side. I have a few things I could say to a certain presidential candidate and I do not want the Secret Service showing up on my front porch at 4 a.m.

Your Kindle desperately wants a copy of Mike Taylor’s e-book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, available at Amazon.com and other online booksellers. If you’re still reading paper, you can buy a “real” copy of the book at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com.

I’ve finally found my dream job, again

I’m thinking of retiring from the column-writing game. I’ve been tempted to give it up only once before, when I learned that the American Tasting Institute (there really is such a place) has full-time employees who do nothing but taste stuff, then report on whether they like it. Near as I could tell at the time, it was the only job easier than writing a column.

Turns out there’s one easier still, and I’m thinking of applying.

The job? In-house human bed warmer, and no I am not kidding.

I would have to move to the United Kingdom (some folks call it England or Great Britain—the Queen should make up her mind on this one; the whole thing’s been ambiguous too long). That’s where three Holiday Inn hotels currently offer the service.

As I understand it, the human bed warmer climbs between the client’s frosty sheets and lies there until the temperature of the bed reaches 68-degrees, at which point he or she vacates the premises to be replaced by the hotel guest.

The article I read on the subject didn’t mention how long it took for the sheets to reach the proper temperature; I’m guessing that would depend on the size of the human bed warmer, her fat-to-lean ratio, and whether she was post-menopausal and experiencing hot flashes.

Whatever the case, this does not sound like a job for skinny young girls. I, on the other hand, would be perfect for the gig! Not only am I slightly fat, but I sport more body hair than your average wildebeest. According to at least one woman who should know, sleeping next to me is like curling up with a silverback mountain gorilla that’s been jogging through the rain forest in August. (Although the woman I’m thinking of may have been referring not to heat, but odor.)

Regardless, I’m sure human bed warmer is a job I could handle. Not only am I imminently qualified with regard to heat-producing potential, but there are few things I’m as good at as lying about all day. Why, Superbowl Sunday alone I maintained a prone position on the sofa for six straight hours and nobody was even paying me! I did it for free, fool that I am.

I could have lasted longer, but I had to get up for beer ingestion and release a couple times.

I also should mention on my resume that I fall asleep easily, but rarely stay asleep for more than a half-hour. So I could move from bed-to-bed ‘round the clock, never having to take a break. Thirty minutes of shuteye here, 30 minutes there; that’s all I’d ever need. A couple meal breaks throughout the evening and I could “work” indefinitely.

At just under 30 minutes per bed, I figure I could service nearly 50 beds in a 24 hour period. That’s a full day’s work in anybody’s book.

The only thing I can think of that might keep me from fulfilling my new career dreams is this: I don’t wear pajamas. Never have, never will.

This, I’ll admit, could be a concern for some of the hotel’s more fastidious guests. It could also make my trips from room-to-room, um, interesting, though I suppose I could throw on a robe while traversing the hallways, if management insisted.

I could probably write more on this topic, but if I’m ever going to land the job, I should probably get down to some serious training. Zzzzz.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.