Doing Laundry in College is Just Like Getting Ass Raped by a 300 Pound Black Man. And I Should Know.

Billy Green - 02/12/04

If you were to ask me what I like most about being in college, the answer would have to be the fact that I can get an endless supply of free Pop Tarts. I go to college in Lower Michigan, not to far from Battle Creek, which is not only the home of over 200 registered sex offenders, but also the home of Kellogg's, the makers of Pop Tarts. They must have some sweet distribution deal with my college, because every day there is a big tub of Pop Tarts in the cafeteria. I stuff my pockets with Pop Tarts every day. It drove me to buy a toaster.

Pop Tarts are unbelievably delicious. If you want to know what happens when I eat a pop tart, look at this cartoon:

But if you were to ask me what I hate most about college, I would have to say that it is doing the laundry. Every time I go through the process of cleaning my clothes, it's a fucking pain. First off, it costs $1 to use the washing machine, and then another dollar to use the dryer. Both machines only accept quarters, and as it just so happens, the change machine in the laundry room doesn't work. It apparently hasn't worked for years, and since I live in a mainly freshman dorm, I don't think anyone cares enough to fix it. To get quarters, you have to use one of the pop machines upstairs, but these won't always give you just quarters. Sometimes they won't even give you change back. Sometimes you put a dollar in the slot and press the change button, the machine displays text in that digital screen that says "It's mine now, fucker. Go away."

To get enough quarters to do laundry, you usually have to end up hoarding them when you buy something and get change. This can take a few weeks, which is fine, because I try to do laundry only twice a month, and I am working on stretching it out to once every two months because I can't keep putting up with this shit.

Ok, so a few night ago, I put my clothes in a washing machine, inserted four quarters, and got the machine going. I came back to the laundry room right about when the machine should be done, to find that the floor around it was covered in water. Also the machine smelled like smoke. "Egad!" I exclaimed, as I lifted up the opening to the washing machine to shut it off. "Fuck!" I exclaimed as I saw that all my clothes were floating in a pool of water inside the washing machine.

This is now a lot like those family sitcom episodes where the mom gets fed up with doing housework, so she kills herself. Dad and the kids then have to learn to do housework on there own, with hilarious consequences. Like when they do the laundry, one of the kids will put in the whole box of laundry soap in to the machine. This causes the machine to spew suds all over the house. Everyone else then gets mad at the kid, and they beat him into a coma. ABC's TGIF shows did this premise all the fucking time, and it was never funny. The only cool episode of TV show where the kids had to run the house for awhile was the episode of Pete & Pete, when Little Pete sold the house to another family as revenge. Damn, that whole series was funny, I want it back on TV.

Anyway, my clothes were all swimming. I took them out one by one and wrung them out over the washing machine before putting them in the dryer. I knew that one dryer cycle was not going to dry out his damn soggy mess, but I had to get them somewhat not so wet at least. I wrung out each piece of clothing over the washing machine and stuffed them all into a dryer. The kicker came when I inserted four quarters into the dryer. It wouldn't start. Cool. I pressed the coin return, but it wouldn't give me back my change. It had eaten my money. The dryer was even more rude than the pop machine, on it's digital display screen it just said "Fuck off."

The only thing I like about doing laundry is that after going through all that shit, I help myself to all the free panties I want. I have so many panties tucked away now that if someone finds them, they'll probably end up questioning my sexual orientation or something. But I could care less, because I am the one with the stash of stolen panties. They smell great.

Score!