Picture This: the birds are chirping, the sun is shining, and I’m trying to be a good little girl and do my laundry on a perfect, serene Sunday. I slip my BruinCard into the laundry room door’s tight little slit, and enter MILDEW INFESTED HELL! Twenty-nine of the thirty washers have a hastily-made “Out Of Order” sign slapped on their face and half of the dryers are actively on fire. The floor is flooding and I have to wade through the dirty little creek that’s developed over the last week, completely ruining my last pair of clean pants. My perfect and regular brain tells me I always need to wash all of my dirty clothes at one time, so I naturally take off my pants and throw them into the only “working” washer.
The stress of this crime scene has given me a pounding tension headache, and I’m dangerously close to passing out. As I throw the rest of my load into the machine, I realize what I must do to cure myself of the stress of this situation: I need to blow my OWN load. It only makes sense that in a room swamped by mysterious liquid I couldn’t help but wish my underdrawers were flooding instead.
Before you judge the ethical viability of this, remember that NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT FOR ME! I haven’t been able to fire up the ol’ genital sneeze since fall quarter, when the wretched dryers in this dreadful room burnt all of my nice lingerie to absolute shreds. I knew the room would be empty because I was using the only working machine, so I feel empowered and safe to mount myself up and sit on Laundry Machine #7. I start the machine, and writhe in anticipation. The machine starts up and at first I feel nothing, but I’m a sweet, patient, divine feminine girl, so I wait. Suddenly…
I FEEL NOTHING! What the hell! So I wait another few minutes, and you guessed it -— complete absence of any usable jiggle, tremor, or quiver.
I waited THE WHOLE 37 MINUTE CYCLE!!! Nothing. Nothing, at all. You’re telling me NONE of the washers can clean my clothes properly without covering them in a mysterious layer of green mold goo, and NONE of the dryers can dry my clothes without running for three cycles, burning my bra, and eating my sock, and the ONE thing I ask for, just a quick shoot and scoot, the only thing a defective washer is usually capable of, CAN’T even be managed?
Defeatedly, I hop off and open the machine, and I’m bombarded with a stinky farty musk as I’m slapped in the balls with the realization that I forgot to add detergent before starting the load. Here we go again — I’ll let you guys know if I ‘splode on round two.
