Our apartment doesn’t have a washer and dryer. And there’s no wiring or hookups for them.
Instead, we have to use the laundry center.
We have a tall laundry hamper on wheels that we use to carry clothes to and from the laundry center.
Others have similar laundry hampers, baskets and bags. I saw a pair of blue Ikea bags there this weekend.
And then there’s the ones who just bundle up their clothes in a wad and carry them, leaving a trail from their front door to the laundry center.
As long as it’s to, and not from, right?
Category: My stories
Happy as a clam
My friend Billy says he is as happy as a clam.
How happy are clams? And how can you tell?
The government offered millions of dollars in research grants to determine how happy clams are.
It’s part of a greater project to determine the overall happiness of coastal bivalves and mollusks, such as oysters and mussels.
Of course, the research is really just a cover for a bunch of grad students and professors holding clam bakes and oyster parties at the taxpayer’s expense.
Sure, they say the clams are happy, but I’m not happy about getting shucked for this shit.
Cheesy Maze
Most researchers put cheese in the middle of the maze for the mice to find. But Dr. Odd puts mice in the middle of the maze for cheese to avoid.
Because, you know, cheese doesn’t want to be eaten by mice.
The hardest part was keeping the mice in the middle of the maze.
Dead mice aren’t all that interesting or threatening to cheese. And there’s rules against cruelty to animals.
After years of experimentation, Dr. Odd developed a humane way to keep mice in the same spot.
Which isn’t interesting or useful at all.
Whatever. Care for some cheese?
Rudolph the red-nosed deadbeat
After Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer got the job of leading Santa’s sleigh, he got invited to all of the reindeer games.
Especially with the does.
Pretty soon, there were red-nosed fawns all over the North Pole.
And all of their mothers sued Rudolph for child support.
Rudolph spent a lot of time running. And drinking. His navigation skills went completely to shit.
Santa got fed up with the B-list animal celebrity crap, and he mounted some running lights, a GPS tracker, and flight radar on the sleigh.
Rudolph shot himself, and he ended up in a batch of venison jerky.
Santa’s Birthday
When is Santa’s birthday?
Technically, he doesn’t have a birthday.
Most years, they pour him out of the cloning tank around January.
It all depends when the previous copy keels over from a heart attack from the stress and all those damn cookies.
Because, let’s face it… that fat bastard isn’t going to win any fitness awards, right?
Once the job’s open, they pour out the new Santa and brainflash him with memory RNA and hypnosis tapes.
Birthday, Clone Day, who cares? As long as he lasts until Christmas and hands out a bunch of gifts, nobody gives a shit.
Write letters to Santa
Why do kids write letters to Santa Claus?
Because he’s deaf. Can’t hear a damn thing.
No point in having a phone line.
As for email, there’s a group of elves who print out emails and then bring them to Santa.
As for how he reads letters in different languages, he’s got elves who can translate them for him.
And computer network elves to hack global databases so he can find home addresses, whether they’re a boy or girl, and if they’ve been naughty or nice.
Or rich. Because, if they’re rich, they can buy that shit for themselves, right?
Cookie Contest
Cedar Falls used to hold a Christmas Cookie contest every year.
Tom Peterson rigged up his 3-D fabricator to print cookies.
He loaded it with dough, and he printed out a batch of intricately-woven cookies that looked like crystal spiderwebs.
Ten minutes in the oven, and they were ready.
Everybody who tried his cookies said they were amazing, and he won first prize.
Later, Tom clutched his stomach and moaned.
Seems that he didn’t clean out the toxic epoxy compound from the printer before he put in the dough.
The survivors now just decorate a tree in the town square.
Santa Yoga
Santa’s really into Yoga these days.
Last year, he came back from his delivery run, and he went through the leftovers in his sack.
The last thing he pulled out was a Yoga DVD.
So, instead of just sitting on his ass watching porn and yelling at Mrs. Claus until November or so, he’s got his yoga mat and a 65-inch flat panel high-definition TV (another delivery he “lost” that year), and he’s stretching and breathing.
I hear he’s lost forty pounds. Had to get his suit resized.
That’s okay. This year, he’ll find leftover porn and gain fifty back.
Anti-Santa
If Santa’s up at the North Pole, who’s down at the South Pole?
Anti-Santa, of course.
Anti-Santa flies around the world in his anti-sleigh pulled by anti-reindeer and gathers toys from all the good boys and girls.
He fills up his sack, and then goes back to his anti-workshop where the anti-elves smash the toys into teeny tiny bits.
The next morning, the kids wake up to… nothing. Because Anti-Santa goes around just after Santa.
That’s okay, because it’s really your moms and dads who give you presents.
Unless you’re an orphan. Then you get nothing.
Well, maybe charity.
Maybe.
Specials
Back when all there was to watch was broadcast television, every series ran Christmas specials.
Even the ones that had no business running them, like shows in space or prehistoric times.
There was a Christmas special for Star Wars, despite being long ago and in a galaxy far away.
And it was horrible. The Star Wars special… all of them.
These days, people watch cable television or Netflix and Hulu and Amazon.
You don’t have to watch any of that crap.
Although, if you really wanted to, you could read a book or spend time with family.
Nah. What’s on?