I’d love to get hold of whatever idiot is responsible for placing feather-filled pillows in my hotel room. I’d like to take him, duct-tape him to a wall, and slowly pop out his eyeballs with goose quills.

Unable to sleep, breathe, or see properly, I’ve got plenty of time to imagine such revenge.

Thing is, it’s 2010, and I can’t begin to fathom what would have to be wrong with a person for him to think that down-filled pillows remain luxurious, desirable, or even modestly acceptable in a public place. Sure, they could be available upon request for idjits — but to have them as the “default” sleeping surface?

Asinine, that’s what it is.

Don’t get me wrong; down is good for plenty. On particularly cold nights, there’s nothing quite like a good down comforter. And if you’re into old-school camping, a down-filled sleeping bag can give a high-tech thinsulate version a run for its money.

But pillows? That makes no damn sense.

Riddle me this: When was the last time you were lying in bed with your pillow, grumbling, “Man, I wish they made these things warmer. Some of my hair isn’t caked to my face yet, and I feel there’s still some oil in my pores waiting to ooze out. Won’t someone come out with a pillow filled with highly effective insulating material so I can truly feel as if my face were in an oven while I toss and turn?”

If anything, I’d like a pillow built out of some sort of highly effective wicking cotton, with a hollow, air-conditioned core.

If hot as hell isn’t reason enough, how about lumpy as all get out? See, the thing about natural feathers is they like to lock up together, making lumps. And while it may be “quaint” to suffer that way, it sure ain’t relaxing, or pleasant, or acceptable, when the world is full of synthetic alternatives.

And, of course, we can’t leave out the fact that a bunch of us are flat-out allergic to the damn things. In my eyes, allergies are reason enough, by themselves, to call for a ban on these obnoxious holdouts. We’ve managed to ban smoking from most hotel rooms; why not also ban the bags of bird dander masquerading as safe spots to lay down your head?

Round up the down pillows and toss them in a room, along with other bad ideas, like steaks cooked well-done and foreskin piercings.

Or, if you really insist on going retro, go all the way: Leave a chamber pot in my room, toss a hay-stuffed mattress on my bed, and stock the place with some fearful scullery maids who won’t scream “Rape! Rape!” if I have my way with them.

Before you ask, it’s way too late to request a “normal” pillow now. By the time I realize the lumps I’ve felt are fowl in origin, my face is already bright pink, and there’s no chance I’ll be getting to sleep tonight.

Like wearing a tuxedo to dinner, this is one “luxury” I can do without.