Tag Archives: laundry

Sharks are jumpin and the cotton is high

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Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy sexy! I’ve got Zellweger down in the basement Zellwegering the laundry. She knows her way around the delicates, that girl.

Every day (everyday) I think “Man, this is it, the day I finally eat the whole thing.” But I never do. You know why? Because I am Bartleby. I prefer not to. Also, I am too lazy to walk to the fridge. I wish the ceiling would just rain Captain Morgan and Diet Coke. I could tip my head back like a baby bird.

What do I prefer, you ask? Well, there’s shouting at the help, kicking the pets, and cheating on my spouse. And heavy, heavy drinking. This morning’s plans were spontaneous: I ran someone off the road for the first time in a long while, and that was great. After evading the police, I arrived home just in time to lay a trap for the mailman. I’ve hidden a black widow spider in the box! Now I’m going to have Consuela (my dumbass housekeeper with the stereotypical housekeeper name) throw out all the expired yogurts.

Bang me until I whimper

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Renee Zellweger attempts to blend in with her environment. Renee doesn’t know that the shark in the next panel (not pictured) can totally see her. I have to look away now.

This personal internet homepage on the internet is now about two things: Renee Zellweger and laundry. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Why am I doing six loads of laundry today? How did we get to be so dirty? Oh, right. You pig.

Pope Destructicon XXX

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Well, there’s a lot of laundry on the bedroom floor. I can’t tell what’s clean and what isn’t, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sniff it all. I hope my laundering is not interrupted by drunk Cheryl from upstairs again. Cheryl is all “I have to do one load of laundry by 4 pm!” And I’m all “You should have planned ahead, fuck me for doing laundry on a random Thursday afternoon.” And she’s all “no, really,” and to end the conversation before she tells me why 4 pm is so important, I just take my laundry out. Then when hers is midway through the wash cycle, I go down and unplug the machine. I am kidding about that last part. I think.

There is an obese family that lives downstairs, and they do so much damn laundry. I had to take some of their stuff out of the dryer the other day, and I realized why they are constantly in the laundry room. Because each load only holds two pairs of supersized pants and a sweatshirt. Think of that wasted water. Sea otters could be cavorting in that. They also produce an amazing amount of trash, what with eating an entire box of Honey Smacks each at every meal. Or so it seems as I stare out my window with binoculars. OK, I sit out on the deck and openly stare.

I am Gladys Kravitz rolled into Dr. Phil rolled into a watery grave if I don’t watch my mouth. I can’t wait to purge the church of all the fornicators.