Smells like...Snuggles There are two things in this world that have a tendency to act as a humbling force of sorts on America's great, unwashed young men. One: Finding out that a less than erotic picture of a brassier model in the pages of the J.C. Penny catalog can lead you to the fitful discovery of onanistic rituals that will last a lifetime. The other: Having to wash your clothes at a Laundromat. I don't want to reveal myself as being a spoiled fop here, but I'm not ashamed to admit that the bulk of my life (barring a very brief period I don't wish to discuss) has been spent with a washer and dryer under my roof. Hell, there was even that glorious summer when I had somebody doing my laundry for me, until the cops showed up at my door one day and starting yelling at me about illegal child something or other. That, I suppose, is neither here nor there. What is here and there is that having left my old residence (replete with washer and dryer) and moved into the new (not even a garage to speak of) I am forced to clean my clothes at the local public washing establishment. Perhaps it's my ever growing alarmist tendencies, or maybe it's that almost every time I walk into that place there's at least one person in there that's wearing a $150 Gap shirt that's been designed to resemble shitty hippy clothes but I can't help but feel as though I'm being judged. Are people staring at the giant bottle of Safeway brand laundry detergent and shaking their internal head and thinking about how much the neighborhood has gone downhill? Do they see me boldly putting lights and darks in one machine and label me a troglodyte? That rather attractive young lady four dryers down. Surely she's noticed that's I happen to be in possession of flannel "Grinch" underwear. Is that scoring me points? That's what I thought. Of all the traumatic things one can experience in a lifetime. I had to end up with one of the shit-stupid ones. Maybe I'll just start fabreezing everything...
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