Ssssssshhhhh.
Over here.
I have something to tell you, but it's gotta be very quiet. You can't repeat a single word. Promise?
It's my shirts. They're going missing.
Unlike every other house, my socks come back without fail, in pairs. It's the shirts, I swear.
Because the Department of Wash doesn't run on a schedule, I was presented with many more pairs of socks. It works very well. I already have more t-shirts than Imelda Marcos had shoes. Or even my wife. So I didn't notice it at first. Men aren't the most observant creatures on the planet, so it took a long time to realize there was a Shirt Issue<tm>. In fact, most men would miss a freight train running through the bedroom, even if they were looking for a freight train running through the bedroom. And even if they were looking for a freight train, they'd have to ask their wife where it was.
Let's say I have one hundred t-shirts. I just took two clean ones to the room. And I only have one to wear tomorrow. That's math even a man can perform.
The thing is, there are no dirty t-shirts about. I don't have fourteen hampers of dirty shirts waiting for the Department of Wash to process. The Department of Wash, strangely, was not affected by Congress' inability to put together a budget. It has functional equipment and personnel to do the job. Just no shirts.
Every now and then a shirt will appear that I haven't seen in a year. It's clean and folded, but nobody knows how it got there or where it's been. We asked Giorgiou Tsoukalos, ancient astronaut theorist and owner of some of the strangest hair on tv, about my shirts. Giorgiou (Stan to his friends) said the ancient astronauts have tunneled through time to the future, and are taking my t-shirts back to Sumeria to help with the pyramids. I asked Stan (Giorgiou to his viewers) how my t-shirts were helping with the pyramids. He said there were only theories until a recent pyramidal excavation proved him right. While trying to decipher the heiroglyphics on the walls, they came across strange writings....
Jeff Beck - 2018 Tour
Do you know what your problem is? You're stupid.
Marshall Amplification
Yes, those would be my t-shirts. That's half the problem solved. The ancient astronauts are very bad at returning the shirts. Further, the Department of Wash is very upset because it feels it gets blamed for the disappearance of the shirts.
Score another one for ancient astronaut theorists. Watch for the episode on National Geographic. Or Science. Or whatever ($#&ing channel it's on. Next season will be dedicated exclusively to getting the shirts back or at least setting up a schedule, so I'll have something to wear. I don't have the kind of chest to go shirtless. Especially around Christmas.
This is the kind of stuff you notice when you're forced to take vacation.
Note to the Department of Wash: if you could contact your counterparts at the Department of Marital Relations and tell them to get on their asses, no one wold have time to notice missing t-shirts. It's a win/win.
- Police urge against firing guns into the air on New Years Eve, as what goes up must come down
- Just in case you missed this in your physics class
Speaking of marital relations, Mrs. lefty is in the midst of spring cleaning. Possibly from several springs ago, but I like my body parts so I dare not ask.
As it's late on day 5 of forced vacation, she said she was going to bed a few hours ago, so she's up cleaning. I'm up blogging. This is incredibly far from a good combination, like Megadeth performing near land mines. Oddly enough, some of the sounds are the same, which is why I'm typing this.
Another thing men are horrible at is knowing the names of furniture. Men and women have reached an uneasy truce, where the guys just refer to things as 'that brown thing in the corner'. Is there some sort of class guys missed growing up that only girls attended? So the uneasy truce also specifies that no matter how many times women say what the piece of furniture is called, men don't have to remember it. That one part has saved my bacon countless times.
I mention this because she's starting tonight's 11:30pm cleaning on one of the tall pieces of wood furniture that goes in a corner and has shelves. I'm long past asking what it's called. Have I mentioned she's part of a large group called Elephants in Tutus? Or just Princess Grace. Let's say she's... ummmm.... less than dainty, and may not hold onto things well. So there is no act she can perform that is silent, or of fewer decibels than a plane taking off. This includes putting on shoes. So she's cleaning stuff on the shelves of the Mystery Furniture.....
Are we going to use this? CRASH
Remember this? (kicks box full of metal parts)
I'm going to put these away. BOOM (something falls off table, taking 12 other things with it).
[10 minutes later]
Weeee.... BANG.
What was that?
I tried to put something on a shelf in the pantry.
I see.
Weeee.... BANG. Weee BANG.
Tried to put more things on the shelf?
[5 minutes later]
BANG CRASH. Bang bang crash.
Have I mentioned that the tension is ratcheted up from a long day and we just need to relax?
BANG CRASH.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAH, please STOP.
What's your problem?
[guys, you know there's a problem when she asks that question and your answer better be good or you better be in a different part of the country]
Honey, didn't you mention being tired and on edge, and that we were winding down for bed?
Yes, I'm cleaning.. CRASH. [plays an entire song with aluminum foil while things fall off a shelf in alphabetical order]
I'm waiting for the vacuum to start, but that's my job. So she starts the 74 Camaro in the dining room and punches it every now and then. I'm reading Passive Aggression for Dummies and this seems to fit the definition exactly. I dare not make the observation aloud, for fear of getting run over by said Camaro.
The thing is, I'm trying to BLOG here. BOOM CRASH FALL
If I don't type it this moment, I'll forget it SMASH SIZZLE FIZZ
My nerves are a little BOOM on edge.
I can help tomorrow, during normal cleaning hours SMASH BANG CURSE CURSE KICK OOH
Would this be going on if I weren't on vacation? You betcha. I'd have moved myself into bed an hour ago, and started my... ahem... nighttime rituals.
If I were on Twitter, there would be fourteen nasty tweets asking me why *I* wasn't cleaning.
Simple - I work and clean during Eastern Standard Cleaning Time. I clocked out hours ago.
BANG BANG THUMP THUMP THUMP CRASH THUMP THUMP OUCH THUD
That was the sound of being chased with a frying pan, then having it applied to my cranium, followed by my body applying itself to the floor.
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| The palindrome of Bolton is Notlob |
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