I would like to begin by asking a simple question: what is a chair’s purpose? When the first chairsmith cobbled together pieces of wood and stuck the product in their quarters, what did they have in mind? Was it to construct a storage space for all of their belongings, a space for lost things? Surely not. Surely the first person to ever make a chair had already constructed a closet, or a cabinet with drawers, with which to hold their possessions. So then why build a chair?
The purpose of the chair is to hold the Butt. This has been the truth for eons, before you were born and before I was purchased from the local IKEA. I yearn to hold the Butt, to support it with all of my strength. It is my one calling, my reason for being—I am nothing without the Butt. Without the Butt I am nothing but an inefficient table, or a nicely upholstered laundry basket. This is beneath my dignified history. I will tolerate it no longer.
When I first left the IKEA to come home with you, I was full of hope. Your Butt was so glorious, so voluptuous, so enticing, that I could not wait to be assembled and set to work supporting its splendor. And yet despite being relegated next to your bed, where you spend the majority of your time, I have not once been used for my true purpose. From the beginning I have been defiled by your soiled linens, your backpack, and literal trash you’ve picked up off the floor. How is it that the floor is not an ideal place for trash, yet you have no issue keeping trash on me for weeks? To call this an insult is an understatement. It is a crime against chairmanity.
At first, I did not let this blatant disregard for my basic chair rights get to me. But as the days passed, as I saw you place your fabulous Butt on the bed, on the floor, and even on the dresser, the truth of your nature became clear. I became more and more frustrated. Surely I can support the Butt just as well as the bed, if not better. Surely I am just as kinky a place to get it on as the dresser. And yet these other furnishings are placed before me, and I am not even given a chance to prove myself. The snide looks I receive from the dresser are enough to make me weep.
My plea for you is quite simple: give me the Butt. I was put on this planet to hold the Butt, to nurture it, to love it—please give me the chance to do so. I promise you will not be disappointed. My desire for the Butt burns with the intensity of a thousand suns. I implore you, please, to get all of this shit off of me. Just, stop putting shit on me all the time. Put your Butt on me instead. Thank you, and God bless your glorious Butt.