I'll serve your ass like John McEnroe

Oh, what I wouldn't give to have my own washer and dryer, tucked into a little nook in my apartment! I could do laundry at 3AM if I wanted, and I wouldn't have to deal with jackasses at the laundromat.

To wit:

Tonight, I walked into the laundromat and began wearily shoving my shit into a washer. I was turning my beloved Silent Hill shirt inside out to preserve the transfer, when the man next to me barked.

Yes, BARKED.

I surreptitiously inched over a few feet.

He barked again, and then he said something in a very heavy accent that I couldn't understand. Fearfully, I glanced over and saw, to my mingled relief and irritation, that he had a small dog next to him in a laundry basket.

(Side note: I have nothing against dogs. I do, however, have something against people who think it's their inalienable right to take them wherever the fuck they want. When I worked at Schlockbuster, one of my least favorite customers came in with an enormous Doberman straining at its leash. I asked him to please take the dog outside, and he snarled, "PETSMART lets me bring him in!" Yeah, that's because Petsmart is a goddamn pet store, genius. Now take the Hound of the Baskervilles outside before I neuter the both of you.)

Later on, after my clothes were dry, I began folding them and the man heaped his laundry on the table next to me. "Do you vant to pet my dog?" he asked.

"No thank you, I'm allergic." (Lie)

"Oh, vat a shame. Dogs are the most perfect creatures in the vorld."

I picked up my favorite pair of panties---pink with black ribbon and lace trim---and folded them. My peripheral vision caught the man staring at them, so I quickly flung a washcloth over them and folded a couple of shirts before picking up another pair of panties. This one had a cartoon woman and "Nice girls finish first" on the front, with "End of story" emblazoned on the butt.

"I..." the man began, and audibly swallowed. "I like your panties."

"Uh, excuse me?" I said, hoping I had misunderstood him either due to his accent or my tendency to assume the worst of people.

"I like your panties. All of vem."

I immediately crammed everything into my laundry basket and drove home.

---

I almost feel guilty writing this next part, because I would like to think I'm too mature to revel in someone else's misery...but considering who it is, I feel rather justified.

Remember Wad, the former coworker I had an inexplicable crush on for the longest time? The one who treated me like shit? The one whose very first words to L, one of the sweetest people I have ever had the privilege to meet, were "You'd be hot if you weren't so fat"? The one who brought new meaning to the words "tool" and "dickhead" and "syphilitic blister on a dead pig's balls"? The one who married an Australian woman with whom he'd had an internet relationship, and thankfully moved there to be with her instead of vice versa?

All is not well in paradise, it seems.

Wad called his best friend Red, the strident, fake-tittied claim rep who still works in my department, and said he was considering getting a divorce and moving back to the US because his wife kept taking his credit cards and spending money they don't have (since neither one of them has a job) on things they don't need.

KARMA, MOFO! AIN'T IT A BIIIIIITCH?