Hey, it doesn’t wash itsel—… Okay, yeah. It does.

“I can’t right now. I’m doing laundry.”

“Oh, are you at the laundromat? The communal laundry room? Where, in either scenario, one must keep a close eye on one’s clothing lest it be molested by strange hands? I can come keep you company if you like.

“No? You’re at home? Oh, is your washing machine broken? Are you rinsing your dainties in the bathtub and wringing them out over the toilet? Hanging them on door handles, drawer pulls, curtain rods – to dry?

“Did you collect large stones from your backyard or complex’s common area, dragging them into your home and arranging them on your patio so that you might beat the moisture out of your vintage tees in the warm glow of Mother Sun?


“So you opened the top of your washing machine, threw in your unsorted mass of fabrics sullied by body odors and various food greases, poured an indeterminate amount of laundry detergent over the top, closed the lid, pressed one – maybe two – goddamn buttons and walked away? Is that what you mean by ‘doing laundry’?

“Okay. Just checking.”



“The machine does it for you, you entitled asshole. Quit bitching about how busy you are or I swear I will fucking drown you in my rinse bucket.”

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