Date: 13 Jun 1997 00:00:00 GMT

From: (Jim Vandewalker)

Organization: CyberGate, Inc.

Newsgroups: alt.slack





From: (MegEliz)

Newsgroups: alt.slack


Date: Mon, 11 Mar 1996 05:15:53 GMT

Organization: Gene Wolfe Library and Family Restaurant, East Wing (Berin Kinsman) wrote:


: My better half, the lovely and talented Helenbed, has decreed that I am

: no longer allowed to go to the laundromat by myself.


: I used to LOVE going out to do laundry. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse

: to do naught but sit on my fat ass for an hour or so and read trashy pulp

: novels.


: Then, a few months ago, agents of the CON apparently infiltrated ALL of the

: laundromats in the Southwest, and sent Pink agents out to stalk me. Now,


: time I go forth to do the washin' I end up in a bloody fist fight.


: It all started one day when the 'mat was particularly crowded. I HATE crowds,

: which is one of the sole things I generally like about living here in New

: Mexico as opposed to my ancestral lands on the East Coast. When laundromats

: get crowded, they get HOT, and I tend to get IRRITABLE. helenbed says it


: a neon sign appear over my head that says "PLEASE FUCK WITH ME", but I


: that. ANYWAY, out of courtesy, I opt to use fewer driers than normal,

: distributing loads a little heavier, running them a little longer, so that

: others don't have to wait. I'm a swell guy that way.


: AFTER I've pumped quarters into these things, I sit down on the communal


: to read the latest "Destroyer", I look up and see some old BITCH pulling MY

: STUFF out of one of my driers and JAMMING it into another I'm using.

Being the

: gem that I am, I walk up, and politely say "Excuse me?" No answer.

"Excuse me,

: that's MY drier". Still no answer, but now she's putting HER wet laundry into

: MY drier, which has 34 minutes left on it that I'VE paid for. I step in front

: of her, and she prattles off at me something that HAD to be a string of


: in rapid-fire Spanish.


: Having exhausted all common courtesy I feel like wasting, I put my hand

on her

: arm lightly, and stated firmly, "GET YOUR SHIT OUT OR I'LL BREAK YOUR FUCKING

: ARM". Suddenly, a heavy hand comes down on MY shoulder, and I turn around in

: time to see a FIST coming straight at my face.


: In the end, no one got to use the drier, because I'd put the bitch's


: HEAD through the GLASS.


: Now tell me, was that MY fault? Was it really ME that was unreasonable?


: Phef. remend me some time to tell you what happened today, when the homeless

: drunk spilled Thunderbird on the clean clothes I was folding.


Thank you Uncle Bear. Now I know where to go when I get that, "gotta

bust some heads" feeling. I forgot ALL ABOUT the laundrymat! We have a

perfect one down the street with a snippet from the BIBLE in day-glo,

two-foot high letters in the front window (I desperately wish to

remember which verse, but I just can't right now). I really must go

back and take them up on their invitation to get clean and get saved

and kick some ass.


I did go there a few times long ago, when it was a wash 'n snack 'n

workout shop. The first time I put my stuff in the dryer and LEFT.

When I got back, my stuff was soaking wet, somebody else had used my

$2.50 worth of hot air, and they had not stolen even one pair of my

panties. The snotty college kid in charge suspected that the air thief

was another snotty college kid. Big help.


Naturally the NEXT time I stayed with my clothes for the duration.

This meant that I was stalked for two hours by a guy who had drugged

himself through to graduation from my high school. He was adorable,

but had been further brain-damaged in a tragic offramp accident on a

rainy night. Apparently, he still retained the cell needed to remember

me. He even had lovely memories about me that never happened. By the

time I'd folded my stuff he proposed three times.


How could I resist? Now you all know how I met the Reverend and why

I'll just never be the same.


Not-Yet Popette (Laundry makes me wistful) Meg



My sig is not under construction. It's dead.



Jim the Prophet

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