skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 15 May
My Beautiful Laundrette
After an uneventful weekend, I was stuck today thinking, What the fuck am I going to write about today? I mean, seriously, nothing was going on. We watched a couple movies--one was Mirrormask, the Neil Gaiman-scripted and Dave McKean-directed piece that teaches us to believe in ourselves and to distrust screen-faced cats (don't ask); and another was Wolf Creek, an Australian bit of nasty mummery that does for the Outback what Deliverance did for Georgia.
And then the wife decided to do some laundry. Laundry.
Look, I'm not an "extreme" kind of guy. I don't give a shit about the X-Games. Frankly, I like to push bicyclists who ride on the sidewalk down and then laugh at their injuries. That's about as "extreme" as I get, unless you count rollerskating, specifically Snowball dances, at which I rock. I'm just not an extreme guy.
Except for laundry. I am a laundry ninja. Not doing it. Fuck that. What I do? I fold. I fold like your fucking momma. (No offense to actual mommas. Happy Momma's Day! Sorry about your lousy-ass kids' folding skills.)
The wife told me earlier that she was doing some laundry, and so I leapt up from my chair and punched the wall a few times, screaming, "YES MUTHAFUCKA! YES! I'S GONNA FOLD!" Because when laundry is being done, and folding is in the offing? You know I have to revert to vaguely racist speech patterns. It's just the way I roll. Ripped up my knuckles pretty bad, too, so thanks for nothing concrete walls. It's not an easy life for us fuckin' folders.
Sure enough, when the laundry came out of the dryer, I was ready. I stood, silent as a silent person, and just took a look at that hot-ass laundry. I'm so gonna fold the shit out of you, I thought. I don't think so, bitch, replied that fitted sheet. It was pretty steamed. Not really steamed, you see, but, like, mad. Though it would be pretty awesome to steam our sheets.
I launched myself at the fitted sheet. It basically had no defense--pathetic. I hacked at it with the edge of my hand, and I heard it scream. No! it wailed, I have soft, un-alignable edges! Eat it, fitted sheets. I wrestled it into a managable bunch. "That looks like coral," observed the wife. I muttered in reply, "Don't fuck with me right now. I'm in the zone."
I attacked her panties next. Inside-out? Outside-in? Panties are confusing, but I'm a professional. "Crotch up! Then fold over the other things, or whatever!" My mental discipline is unparalleled when it comes to panties. Occasionally, I would have trouble figuring out where exactly the crotch was, in which case I simply put them on my head, in order to get more into the panty-mind. You can stare right out of the leg-holes if you do it right, providing maximum panty-to-brain physical contact. I am a big advocate of putting panties on your head, because how else are you going to fold them? You're not. And it really helps me think. For instance, the last time I had panties on my head, I really got Kant's Critique of Pure Reason.
Even worse, of course, are bras. Stupid broads. Do I wear weird, fetishistic apparatuses to keep my nuts from sagging? No. Like every guy, I am reconciled to the fact that every now and then, you're going to step on your dreary, floor-dragging balls. But chicks insist on shoving their tits up into their necks. Great. I have no patience for these irritating things, so I beat them with a hammer until they were shapeless wiry things. "Here's your ridiculous boob elevators," I sneered, and threw the ruined garments at the wife. "Thanks," she shot back, and then stepped on my stupefying, dragging balls.
I don't know if it's all worth it, really. I mean, I'm not appreciated here. I put my all into our laundry, really--just the other day, I folded some shoes--do you fold your shoes? Well, I do. And you know what I got from the wife? "Why did you ruin your Kenneth Coles?" I don't need this from a fucking Philistine. Then she stepped on my balls again.
I don't know what to do, really. I want to be happy. I want my wife to be happy. I want her to stop crushing my balls. I want to see the future.
I want to put panties on my head. I want answers.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
You're not well. Dog love ya.
You're not well. Dog love ya.
I mean it.
I love to do laundry, but I hate to fold. Sounds like you're quite the expert. My fitted sheets get the best of me every time. I admit it. My bras? I don't wear underwires, so I crunch them up in a ball. Panties? In a ball. Speaking of balls, yours must be flat. Unlike my fitted sheets, which end up in a...ball.
Once again, our lives are depressingly similar.
One day, perhaps, they'll find our shadows burnt into the stucco and wonder how two such geographically diverse male humans could both have spent their last moments with their wives' panties on their heads. "Perhaps" they will posit "This is some sort of panty-hat diaspora?"
Heeeeelarious, just heeelarious. You're a master skot. I'd tell you that shit oughta be published except then we couldnt get it for free so ignore that.
Keep getting your ballz (I prefer ballz with a z, it gives them some originality) stepped on you will be able to predict the future a la Nostradomas (however you spell his name).
stupefying, dragging balls,,, great, good stuff for a random pfaff
this is cute. i wish all men were so crazy about folding, especially my hubby! :)
i love doing laundry but i hate to fold and put away clothes. but i love the warmth of them when they come out of the dryer... and the smell of clean sheets! there's nothing better.
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