FIRE UP THE GRYLLS: Keep an eye out for this one-of-a-kind couch after school lets out

Colin Grylls is a senior journalism major and writes "Fire up the Grylls" for the Daily News. His views do not necessarily agree with those of the newspaper. Write to Colin at crgrylls@bsu.edu.

Drab green, ripped and a little musty, there’s nothing quite like my friends’ couch.

Located in a house two blocks east of campus and eight-ish blocks north of The Village, the far-right cushion of the two-piece sectional sinks farther than the rest. Its central view of the television and proximity to the power outlet make it — by far — the best seat when no one else is around.

But the couch is big enough to fit six overweight men (or eight normal-sized people), and it’s at its best when every seat is filled.

It’s definitely a rugged couch and not a refined sofa. Though an online “Elle Décor” article establishes that the couch and sofa mean the same thing, Dolley Levan Frearson, a “sofa expert” at High Fashion Home, was quoted saying the two words are used by different people.

"I rarely hear people using couch in this industry," Frearson said. "If I do, it's usually from people who aren't familiar with home décor.”

This couldn’t be clearer than when the couch is pulled apart, a regular occurrence given the iPhone-sized gap between sections. Piles of chip crumbs, dust bunnies and loose change serve as a quick reminder that four single men (well, three single men and Brad, whose name has been changed to protect him from his girlfriend’s wrath) inhabit the home, but somehow it still feels cleaner than The Chug.

Still, a few girls show up when there are parties, and the couch is separated to create a lightly-used dance floor that’s far less intimidating than Be Here Now.

When the fun is over, the sections can be pushed together to create an impromptu queen-sized mattress that’s comfortable enough for even sober people to sleep on, which can’t be said about my ex-girlfriend’s couch, which was only ever slept on in cases of extreme stupidity, or some of Muncie’s cheaper hotels and motels. But like a hotel mattress, there are rumors of improprieties that have occurred when the couch was in bed form.

(Those claims are entirely false bravado.)

(Even if the allegations are true, it’s nothing worse than anything that’s probably happened in a booth at Brothers.)

The ambiance is a mixed bag. It’s a much more inviting than my grandma’s 40-year-old hard, pink sofa that comes with an awkward side of racism, but it can be uncomfortable when the squeaking ceiling lets everyone know Brad’s girlfriend is over. Again.

The loud bedsprings are usually drowned out by the booming voices that talk over the TV’s speakers that usually blast nonsense from various ESPN or Fox Sports commentators.

Since there’s no pressure to be on best behavior like there is with my mom’s sofa, the peanut gallery is more colorful than the on-air analysis. The couch possesses a magical ability to turn anyone on the screen into the subject of a dirty joke or baseless speculation — and heaven forbid Bill Walton announces a college basketball game.

Its cushions are worn but still sturdy enough to catch Cubs fans after a celebratory World Series leap, and soft enough to swallow a fist without injury after the Patriots miraculously came back to cover both the spread and the over in the Super Bowl.

It’s not clear how much longer this couch can take the beating, though.

My grandma has had her sofa since the Stone Age (in fact, the cushions might actually be made from stone) and my mom makes sure the cat doesn’t scratch her leather sofa, so they’re virtually indestructible. Sit on my friends’ couch the wrong way and the drab green fabric can rip and every Taco Bell and beer stain is harder to remove than the last.

The couch is on its last legs, and when its owners move out after graduation there’s a solid chance it will be thrown into the alley with everyone else’s misfit furniture.

If anyone tries to salvage it, though, the best seat is the corner where the two sections meet.

There’s no leg room, forcing whoever’s sitting there to curl up in a ball. That person will also lose their phone to the gap at least three times each night, and the awkward corner of the backrest requires constant shifting.

But that corner seat is also right in the middle of the action.

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