Did you hear about the Korean guy who married a pillow? He joined in holy matrimony with a body pillow imprinted with a female cartoon character. I wonder, was it Marge Simpson? Or Dilbert’s co-worker Alice with the big hair? I’m not a betting man—actually, not a man at all, despite a couple of rogue whiskers—but I’ll put money on The Littlest Mermaid. Trust me, after a gestation period, the newlyweds will hatch a litter of fish sticks.

Marrying a pillow may be demented, but it’s also resourceful. Imagine the difficulty in finding a clergyman who’s also a stock clerk at Beddings-R-Us. And how brave! A person would need a huge glob of courage to enter a legal commitment with an entity that over a lifetime will house legions of skin mites.

The average marital road is bumpy enough for two Homo Sapienses, but ethical boundaries get blurry in a hurry if you tie the knot with a sack of feathers. For instance, when traveling, is it adultery to snuggle up with an airline pillow? Can you ever sleep on the couch cushions?? OMG, what about your car headrest?! Even if you kept a plastic dust cover on it for “protection,” the moral ramifications boggle the mind. And if thy mind be liketh unto mine, it dwelleth knee-deep in bogglement.

Hence, I’m not mentally or emotionally equipped to marry a pillow. I do, however, date them. I don’t cavort with cheap throw pillows that are all glitz and no stuffing. Au contraire, my fellow neurotics, for some time now I’ve been seriously dating a “man arm” pillow. Not the deluxe kind with Johnny Depp’s face. Mine is the cheaper model patterned after Joe the Plumber. It has dirty fingernails, and sweats like a Clydesdale.

But the arm is a romantic at heart. Is that anatomically possible?? Whatever. I duct-tape it to my own arm and we stroll through the park, holding hands.

Did your grandma ever wear a fur shoulder stole? Maybe not mink, but two or three foxes hung around her bosom, biting each other’s ass? My granny had a stole made from chipmunks, and her shoulder parade of tiny vermin resembled a furry rosary, with tails. Why am I telling you this…?? Anyhoo, I drape the man-arm over my shoulders so it can open the car door, or carry the groceries, etc. And while doing dishes, all three of our hands wear rubber gloves. For dependable, renewable energy, nothing beats denial.

This relationship tops any I’ve had with my own species. I hang the arm on a door frame, insert drapery hooks into the fingers and…Aaahh…scratch that unreachable spot between my shoulder blades. Never again must I bear the shame of leaving tufts of my back hair snagged on the bark of the neighbor’s trees.

Pssst. I also have a secret crush on my electric mattress pad. Matt’s only a twin, but hey, performance over size, and all that. He lets me control the heat between us, and accepts that often my moods, and pajamas, are ugly. Every spring, Matt heads for the linen closet to brood in the dark until fall. Yet, while we’re apart, I trust him to keep his coils off the pretty guest towels. Like, that bad boy is so unplugged. I may be cuckoo, but I’m not stupid.

And I’m not a slut. Promiscuous is a classier word, from the Latin term for “friendly.” Besides Joe and Matt, I’m really friendly with my snooze alarm. All bliss and zero commitment, every day begins with several nine-minute quickies.

Are you too shy to date household items? Join millions of other social misfits, and call a sex hotline. But be careful. I misdialed and got 1-800-FONE SOX, whereupon I listened to a non-tenured professor murmuring, “Ooh baby, feel my argyles, oh yeah!!”

But it was the sound of support hose soaking in Woolite that really creeped me out.