So a couple of weeks ago, I'm looking around my apartment and realizing that if there were a couple of talking chipmunks living in and running a detective agency out of my piles of laundry, I probably wouldn't notice. Yep, it's time to do my laundry.
I gathered all the laundry that I felt like doing at the time (2 out of 10 loads) and headed for the elevator. Now, knowing that the dryers wouldn't be working, I thought I might as well throw my clothes in the washer and .... uh... drape them over something? I wish there was a place where I could hang laundry in my apartment. What's that? The door frame? Fuck you. Haven't you been reading? This is my apartment. There is no fucking molding around my door. I'm on the third floor and it's like my doors are holes hollowed out of stone.
Regardless I figured it would be nice to put on a clean shirt and I headed for the basement. When I stepped off the elevator and I thought, "Oh crap, what if the washers have been shut off since the dryers are probably not repaired (to be fair they have only been broken for a few months at this point). " Well I was already in the basement so I went for a gander and lo and be-fucking-hold there was a third option I hadn't considered (shameless Alice's Restaurant reference).
There in the corner hidden behind a dryer and right above the drain in the floor was a fucking bum. No, really. A bum. A bum pissing into the drain no less. And this is what runs through my mind.... "What do I say, what do I say, what do I say." What do I say? What the fuck? I'm not going to prom with the guy. Why wasn't my first instinct to get the fuck out? He turned and looked at me mid-stream and all I could get out was "Uh... guess these aren't working, huh?"
I can easily think of 290 phrases that would have been better suited for the situation. Not too far down the list is, "Oh I didn't realize this stall was in use..." followed closely by "What the fucking fuck?!"
shit!
ReplyDelete...also...don't click on my name. I haven't edited or looked at that blog in like 5 years.