Picture, if you will, a modestly sized kitchen in a modestly sized townhouse in a thoroughly unremarkable quasi-suburban enclave. It is early in the morning, but not too early. It is raining outside. Coffee is brewing. The dog is lounging. Everything is normal.
The guy is milling around the kitchen and looking for chores to take care of. The trash and recycling have already been taken to the curb and the dog has already eaten breakfast, so that means it’s time to empty the dishwasher. The guy hesitates. He knows the dishwasher has been having trouble lately – the detergent hasn’t been dissolving fully, and as a result of lot of dishes have come out still dirty. But, since he cleaned a bunch of crusted-over detergent out from the under nooks and crannies around the detergent dispenser, the dispenser seemed to close just fine, and this gave the guy hope that today, things would be different.
The guy opens the dishwasher, slides the bottom rack towards him, and gets to work. This mixing bowl is dirty. This cereal bowl is dirty. This spoon and this table knife are dirty. This chef’s knife is dirty. This spoon and this fork are OK. Most everything in the bottom rack is dirty. The guy is despondent. He was so sure things would work better this time. But now, the bottom rack is empty and those dishes that remain dirty have been placed in the sink. There is nothing to do but press on to the top rack.
These cereal bowls are dirty as well. All of them. As are most of the ramekins. The rage is building. The guy finds his mind teleported to the field of unending psychic battle against the host of his unseen, entirely made-up enemies. Every dickhead attorney that bitched him out over the phone at his last job. All those assholes from middle school. Even his wife, who put the leftovers container in the bottom rack. That shit should’ve gotten clean. They are all arranged across from the guy on this wasteland, on this barren plane of non-existence. It is time for psychic warfare.
The kitchen fills with the sounds of obscenities. Some the guy mutters under his breath indistinctly, others are shouted at the top of his lungs. All are delivered with seething rage. The dog doesn’t know what is going on, but nonetheless knows to be afraid. The guy howls like a madman to himself, with an audience of no one, engaging in battle against a legion of foes that are entirely in his mind, and don’t fully exist. It’s a real high point for all involved.
In the end, the dirty sink is emptied, and those dishes that came out dirty have been washed by hand and are air drying in the clean sink. The cussing and gargling and freaking out have subsided. The coffee has finished brewing. The guy pours himself a mug, makes a bowl of cereal, and sits down to start his day proper. The ordeal is over.
In conclusion, fuck our dishwasher. It sucks and is a piece of shit. Thank you for your time.
Rob Writes About Whatever 