I Am A Man Who Refuses To Empty My Own Dishwasher
I awaken at 6 AM and attack the day like the fiercest of donkeys. Stubbornly, yet workmanlike.
I pour myself a coffee from the pot my wife prepared. I sip and stare. There she is. My nemesis. 90 pounds of stainless steel.
“I WILL NOT OPEN THY DISHWASHER!” say I.
Today is different than the days that have cometh before. I shall wait for my lovely wife to enter the kitchen, glorious she is, in her tattered, drab grey robe that taunts me, as if to say, “What the fuck do I care! You empty it!” And I will say, “No. Not today. I will not empty thy dishwasher, like thou expects.”
And she will say, “Why the hell are you talking like that? You’ve never even read Shakespeare. Your C-student mid-evil English will not work on me.”
No matter. She doth protest a little bit.
An hour goes by and thy dishwasher remains full. Foreboding looms in the kitchen like… (I run up to my attic and retrieve my high school Lady Macbeth ‘Cliff Notes’)… like a “hoarse raven.” Thou dishwasher scoffs at me.
I know. I’ll clean thy foul garage. I will install shelves and bike racks and sweep and clean this musty beast while my Dearest relinquishes the stainless steel animal of our cookware.
