Feelings I Have Had About My Dishwasher
The Rifleman’s Creed (“This is my dishwasher. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My dishwasher is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my dishwasher is useless. Without my dishwasher, I am useless. I must stack my dishwasher true. I must stack straighter than my enemy (roommates) who are trying to kill me. I must kill them before they kill me. I will…”)
Upon seeing how someone else has loaded the dishwasher, failing to take into account my One Best Way for loading a dishwasher most efficiently, with the fewest number of wasted motions, neither failing to pre-rinse the dishes so that they emerge crusted with residue nor pre-rinsing them so efficiently that it defeats the purpose of using a dishwasher entirely; nor stacking plates precariously on the top shelf, nor putting cups, insanely, on the lower shelf, nor overcrowding the silverware drawer, nor putting a bowl face-down over a plate so that the plate will block both water and soap from ever reaching the interior of the bowl: “Look how they massacred my boy”
This is a spirited pony indeed, high-blooded and contemptuous of all but the most subtle riders — she will allow none but me to approach her! You can try to ride her, at your peril, but beware lest you find your feet and head should change positions ere you place the former into the stirrup!
Whoa, there — Easy, girl — it’s me — That’s right. Easy, now. Whoa, there. See what I’ve brought you?
“O thou ancient Wainamoinen,
Only true and wise magician,
Never will I ask for riches,
Never ask for gold nor silver;
Gold is for the children’s flowers,
Silver for the stallion’s jewels.
Canst thou forge for me the Sampo,
Hammer me the lid in colors,
From the tips of white-swan feathers
From the milk of greatest virtue,
From a single grain of barley,
From the finest wool of lambkins?
The way Avril Lavigne feels about Sk8er Boi in the song “Sk8er Boi” — you don’t understand him [the dishwasher]!! you don’t appreciate him [the dishwasher]!! You let him go and now he’s mine, and you have a terrible child and no concert, but I have everything, I have both the singer and the song, and you are never to touch him [my dishwasher] again.
The way old sea captains feel about their ships (giving her a name, incredibly superstitious, vowing to die with her if she ever sinks)
“Of course, it’s challenging [my relationship with my dishwasher] but all good marriages take work”
YOU NEVER PUT A BRA IN THE DRYER. IT WARPS, but for putting cups and forks right-side up
It would take a thousand years to explain how a dishwasher works to you! The dishwasher is the seventy-two esoteric names of God, which you could never guess even after decades of dedicated study, and the highest level of Freemasonry, which you could never achieve even after a century of mastery! You are unworthy, you are a blemished red heifer, and I will clear you from the Temple, as Christ did the money-changers!
[Pretend the dishwasher is an incredibly high-maintenance rescue dog who’s suffered years of abuse and neglect, and you, my roommate or partner or whomever, are some well-meaning but clumsy child doing something incredibly stupid, like trying to engage with her in a friendly way] NO, SHE DOESN’T LIKE THAT, SHE DOESN’T LIKE WHEN YOU DO THAT, LEAVE THAT ALONE
In conclusion, please never touch my dishwasher. You don’t know what she needs. Only I know what she needs.
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