The "How I Learned To Do Laundry" Guest Offensive
11 Feb
Since I am busy celebrating Black History month (hooyah!) and pilfering images for tomorrow’s “Name This Nasty Crap!”, I decided to bring on a guest poster, er, offender today. I humbly present to you “How I Learned to do Laundry” written by the incredibly funny, talented and infamous Spaz of the Mind of Spaz (who in my mind looks like that guy!!).
Enjoy!!
How I Learned to do Laundry
From the Mind of Spaz
I learned to do laundry as a trial by fire. It wasn’t that I wanted to learn to do it, it was that I HAD to learn to do it. Let me explain.
It was a cold and wet Friday. My nineteen year old self and two of my equally obnoxious friends decided that we would go to the strip club downtown to check out some “action”.
Vodd (not his real name) and myself all piled into Levin’s (not his real name) awesome Nissan Pulsar. If you don’t know what a Nissan Pulsar is, I’ll tell you what it is. It’s a two seater go kart with an afterthought back bench wrapped in tin foil, with the lack of acceleration or top speed making up for it having very little braking ability.
In other words, a TOTAL chick magnet! That’s why we were heading to the strip club. Ahem.
Now, I have to clarify something. We’re not in a big city full of hot desperate college students looking to somehow make tuition. No, we’re in a small town full of welfare recipients looking desperately for a way to satisfy their various substance abuse habits. What I’m saying here is that we’ve got some QUALITY wenches dancing up on stage, if you’re into 44 year olds with c-section scars, yellow-green teeth, pancake tits, hair that hasn’t been washed in months and the beginnings of a gunt, that is.
Fast forward to two-thirty in the morning. Vodd had been buying lap dances all night from a hungry looking blond ditch pig who was almost old enough to be his mother. She was sitting at our table, polishing off beers and smokes like they were going out of style when she announced from nowhere that she “really really wanted to go swimming!”.
That’s when Vodd exclaimed “I know where there’s a pool!”
You see, Vodd knew that my parents were in Europe for the month. Despite my best efforts at the ‘ol ixnay routine, we all four of us ended up piling in Levin’s POS Pulsar on our way to my parents house in richville suburbia, so that a drunk and stoned stripper could swim in their pool.
Thinking about the prospect, I was about as excited as a Polar bear on his way to Australia. This was a nice neighborhood filled with manicured lawns and BMW’s in the driveways. My old man wouldn’t even let me help a friend change out the heater core of his car, inside his garage, with the door closed, because “that’s not what people do in this neighborhood”.
And here I was bringing a ditchpig downtown stripper to suburbia utopia. Don’t get me wrong, if she was hot I wouldn’t have objected. But this chick made Courtney Love look young, clean and sexy. I shit you not.
We stepped inside the house, and my dog got one look at the stripper and went to hide under the coffee table. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to have an overly sensitive sense of smell, poor dog.
Then things went downhill quickly.
To sum up the evening, the stripper did a line of cocaine on my mothers kitchen table. She put some cocaine in a cigarette and smoked it. She was drunk and stoned and high and stupid and retarded and she went swimming in my parents pool at three in the morning and I didn’t know WHAT I was going to say to the cops if she drowned.
Of course, if she ended up in the pool skimmer my old man probably would have thought she was a giant drowned rat and buried the thing, but she actually didn’t end up dying.
No, she ended up giving Vodd a B.J. in MY ROOM to the sweet gentle tones of the AC/DC CD I had in my stereo. She then proceeded to pass out in the guest room.
My good friend Vodd came downstairs, told me the stripper was passed out, and asked Levin for a ride home. They left me with a passed out ditch pig stripper, who had a COCAINE problem, in my parents half million dollar home.
I’ll refrain from swearing now. I did enough of that at them as they left.
So now I had a problem. I couldn’t go to sleep because I didn’t want to find my mom’s jewelry box gone and an empty spare bedroom. So, I stayed up all night, sitting on the stairs, so I had a view of the bedroom where the desperate low life forty year old scumbag slept. I was saved by the doorbell at nine A.M. the next morning by a friends little brother.
When I told him I had a stripper upstairs, you should have seen those little eyes bulge out of their sockets. Until he actually saw the stripper, which was a big let down for him and his little weenie, which was tenting at the prospect of a Pam Anderson look alike sleeping in the upstairs bedroom.
Poor, poor delusional boy.
But he had a part to play. I woke up the stripper by kicking the side of the bed. “Hey, my little cousin is here, and I need to give him a ride to work. I’m giving you a ride back downtown. Now!”
Despite her groggy protests, I managed to get her up and out of the house in a crisp, speedy half hour’s time. My “little cousin” and I returned to the house to inspect the damage in the spare bedroom.
Let’s just say we walked into a wall of smell. It smelled like fart, B.O., rotten vagina and shame all wrapped up into one disgusting odour. He puked. I puked. I heard the dog vomiting downstairs. Shit, this was not good.
We cleaned and disinfected everything, but it still smelled. I realized that the smell was actually coming from the bed sheets.
So, I gently removed the sheets with some BBQ tongs and threw them in the washing machine.
And that, my friends, is how I learned how to do laundry.
The REALLY hard way.
