I’m a laundry nomad.
My place doesn’t even have a washer/dryer hookup, so I’m constantly on the lookout for family members, friends, acquaintances and strangers to let me stick my unmentionables in their major appliances.
On numerous occasions, I’ve found myself wandering the streets mumbling “Maytag, Kenmore, Whirlpool!” It’s actually become a good mantra for me. Plus, if you do it for long enough, people start throwing money at you in the hopes that you won’t murder them. It’s a pretty sweet gig.
I could just go to a coin-operated laundromat, but I’ve seen the kind of people that hang out there. I don’t really want my bed sheets tumbling around in the same place they washed their blood-stained t-shirt with Tweety Bird on the front, exclaiming “Let’s get fotally tucked up!”
Why is there blood on it?
I don’t know.
And that’s what frightens me.
Or there’s always the traditional drop-off laundromat. Again, not for me. I imagine the people who work there play dress-up with everyone’s clothes after hours. I picture them running around with my pants on their head, my socks on their hands, choking each other with my ties in some sick, sexual laundromat-operator act. A little far-fetched? Probably. But better safe than sorry. Don’t come running to me when your necktie turns up as the murder weapon in an autoerotic asphyxiation experiment gone awry.
Maybe I’ll just get a washboard. The upside to that is that when I’m not using it, I can grab my spoons, moonshine jug and washtub bass, call up my kinfolk (Jeb, Zeke, PollyAnn and Aunt Sasquatch), and have a good ole hootenanny. We’ll grill some squirrel tails and play “Pin the Extra Chromosome on Cousin Hambone.”
My alternatives seem to be exhausted. Looks like there’s no other option but to continue my nomadic ways. Come to think of it, I hear you have a washer and dryer. Mind if me and Cousin Hambone come over for a little while?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment