My washing machine is going to kill me

You’re a smug looking appliance. You were probably crafted by an evil genius. You’ll take control of my house, seduce the wife, and drive me insane with your efficiency.

When you run in the cellar, I hear nothing but a whisper. If a ninja wanted to do laundry, this is the appliance for him.

You have a tumbler setting to keep neglected laundry from collecting mildew, as if to imply that I’m incapable of doing laundry in a timely manner.

You use less water than a human being wastes in a single day. When I take a shower, I now feel like I’m killing whales.

You require some sort of premium detergent. When I buy this in CVS, I will feel like I’m punching the high-octane button on a gas pump. Why must I treat you like the Mercedes of appliances?

Remind of you of anyone?

Your composite exterior is flawless, like the skin of a racing yacht. Your shiny top is like a canvas. I should decorate you with a silk spread and a bowl of wax fruit.

How you flaunt your superior design and efficiency! Here you stand between the gas dryer and oil tank, refusing to share the cellar with antiquated power sources. How can fleshy, puny humans compare? You want to audit the house. You can do my taxes. One of your cousins is probably orbiting the Earth in the Space Station. I’m starting to feel terribly inadequate and a trifle paranoid. One of these days, I’ll be betrayed by a thinking machine that doesn’t like my taste in dress shirts or the way I fold the laundry. It’s only a matter of time. . . .


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