COLUMN: Laundry

I'm nearly out of excuses. I've played with the cat. I've made dinner. I've watched American Idol (Go Scott! Boo Mario!) and 24 (Go Jack! Boo terrorists!) And now, I'm sitting and writing this column. Sooner or later, though, I'm going to have to face the ugly truth: My underwear reserve is down to one, and I need to get off my butt and go do a load of laundry.

I hate laundry more than any other household chore I can think of. One would think, living in the age that we do, that modern science would have invented self-cleaning, self-folding, and self-ironing clothes by now. Yet while science fritters away on such frivolities as medicine and energy conservation, we poor schmucks are left having to lug a basket full of stinky clothes down a flight of stairs in order to spend our hard-earned quarters just to make our laundry spin around in a variety of unexciting ways until -- presto, cleanliness.

There has GOT to be a better way. To add insult to injury, I live in an apartment complex, which means that I have to share our washer and dryer with an assortment of neighbors. Why is this a big deal, you ask? Apparantly you didn't see Dateline the other night.

Or 20/20. Or 60 Minutes. You know, one of those primetime shows that makes its ratings by telling you that a particular place, thing, or activity -- probably one that you know and enjoy on a regular basis -- is, in fact, a Deadly Time Bomb that can, and most likely will, kill you if you're not careful. What thing? They'll tell you after this important message from Ballpark franks (Mmm. They plump when you cook 'em.)

On this particular episode, the Unknown Terror of the Day turned out to be washers and dryers. You might think they're mankind's friends, but nooooo, they're seething cauldrons of doom. It turned out, much to the grossness of everyone watching, that your average laundromat dryer contains trace elements of no less than five people's... doodie.

Doesn't that make you feel good, communal laundry-doers? Next time you smile at your neighbor in the hall, just think about what you guys might be sharing beyond that occasional cup of sugar.

There are certain facts in life I'd rather not know -- that was one of them.

Enough excuses. Doodie or no, I'm off to the washing machine... Or am I? I just walked downstairs, and someone has left their clothes in the washer and forgotten to empty it. What's the protocol for these situations? I'm in a rush, but do I go ahead and pull their clothes out?
That's kind of rude, and let's face it, there's some spooky dudes in my apartment complex whose microscopic doodies should be the least of my worries.

No, this is EXACTLY the excuse I've been looking for to put this off for another day. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the 24-hour Wal-Mart to fetch myself some clean undies.

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On an entirely unrelated note, I've got to say one serious note real quick. When I was a kid, I never thought I wanted to be a journalist -- until I started reading pieces that made me laugh and think at the same time. And while I respect a great number of writers these days (Sarah Vowell, Dave Barry, David Sedaris, etc.,) there was one man who first made me realize that journalism could be more than who what where when why. Dr. Hunter S. Thompson lived by his own rules, and this past Sunday, he died by his own rules, and our world is a worse place for it. His assorted fears and loathings pointed out the greatest absurdities in our society, and we can only hope his twisted legacy continues to influence rebel journalism for years to come. Hunter once wrote, "Myths and legends die hard in America. We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men's reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of 'the rat race' is not yet final." We may be down one legend, but the good fight carries on. Rest in peace, Dr. Gonzo.