I just had a screaming fight in the laundry room.
I'd come down to change the laundry from the washers to the dryers, and when I opened the door, there, on the folding table, were my five loads of sopping-wet laundry.
I let out a bitter and heartfelt "fuck!"
From the corner where stand the washers in which my laundry had reposed, I heard a low but audible "tsk." I whirled on this unfortunate with eyes blazing and indignation in my soul.
"Did you take my clothes out of the washers?" I demanded in, I confess, a less than polite tone.
"Yes," was the reply.
Words failed me for a moment, but I quickly regained the powers of speech and flew into this fat, polyestered, hairsprayed monstrosity with a vicious diatribe on the posted length of wash cycles (35 minutes), the time I'd actually been gone (30 minutes), and the glaring inappropriateness of her actions. I wound up with the observation that she'd mixed someone else's load with one of mine, and I would now have to poke through a stranger's underwear and t-shirts to extract mine.
She took all this with total lack of response, continuing to turn the pages of her abominable little housekeeper's magazine and not even deigning to look at me. This drove me past all reason.
I won't record here the invective with which I bludgeoned her. Suffice it to say that by the time I'd run out of uncomplimentary adjectives, Miss Polyester had got in a few digs of her own, chins quivering, none of which bothered me in the least. (being called "unholy" is not likely to ever make me feel badly)
Finally, I let her have it with an inelegant but refreshingly shouted "Get bent!" and proceeded to put my clothes in the dryer, muttering under my breath the entire time.
I'll never understand what possesses people to think that it's ok to yank my clothes out of the wash and pile them on a table. I'm not sure from under what slime-encrusted rock Miss Polyester crawled, but I would never dream of perpetrating such rudeness. Never mind the fact that the wash cycle had stopped. If she couldn't wait the five minutes for me to rescue my clothes, well ....... it's no wonder the world's gone to hell.
It may be a bit of a stretch to equate laundry-room ethics with the decline of civilization, but by gad, I'm going to do it. What is it about people that makes them think that their needs surmount anyone else's? Why must people give in to their basest instincts? Why, in the name of all that's good, can't people just be polite??
This little rant doesn't have much of an ending, I'm afraid. Miss Polyester did not repent and apologize to me. She continued to hover by the dryer containing her things, flipping the pages of her magazine and sniffing in disgust. I, having to wait for my own dryers to finish, contented myself with a satisfying inner commentary on the rolls of fat by which her knees were covered, her hideous white shoes and the way her tight shorts clung to the unflattering rolls of her hips. I stifled a laugh at the sight of the ruffly, pink-and-white panties in a size well able to serve as a tent for a medium-sized family, and when I left, I tossed her a sarcastic "have a great day" and slammed the door with no dignity but plenty of passion.