Man in his Pyjamas A collection of comedy writing, poetry and Asperger Syndrome.

The unprincipled loading of the dishwasher

My wife loads the dishwasher like a drunken mental patient. One would be forgiven for thinking that she stands at the bottom of the garden and shot-puts the spoons in from there. That she drunkenly bowls the plates in overarm.

After my betrothed has drop kicked all the tea things in, the inside of my dishwasher looks like a cross between a food smeared game of Jenga and a piss poor Britain’s Got Talent novelty act.

God only knows what goes through her mind whilst she’s loading the fecking thing? 240 volts of electricity one assumes from the aftermath.

Dishwasher footbath

Every time I’m unfortunate enough to have to open the dishwasher, filthy lukewarm water cascades out from one of the many misplaced bowls and gorgeously waterfalls all over my bare feet, inciting me to murderous thinking.

Seriously, every time, I swear…. in more ways than one.

As I fury-splodge across the kitchen floor, looking for a mop and a divorce lawyer, I wonder why? WHY?

It really is beyond me…..  Why can’t she put things in properly not improperly?

I’ve asked her literally hundreds of times to do me a solid, and load the dishwasher like she isn’t a flaming anarchist, and yet often I stand with wet feet.  Again and again. And again.

Dishwasher help is at hand

On many occasions, I’ve offered to give her a dishwasher loading tutorial. But when I do, she looks at me in such a way as to suggest that she’d rather me totally f*ck right off. Like totally.

If I could go back in time (to 11 years tomorrow) I’d have appropriate dishwasher loading written into our marriage vows.

Or I’d be gay. I bet the gays can load a dishwasher properly; like gentlemen.

Happy anniversary Toni! At least after 11 years of marriage, I’m consistent.  A consistent nob head. You know where you are with a consistent nob…. you can set your watch by one.

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2 Thoughts on “The unprincipled loading of the dishwasher

  1. You haven’t just hit the nail on the head, you’ve bludgeoned it to within an inch of its life. Which, incidentally, is what I feel like doing to my own beloved when I too am standing with wet ankles at the dishwasher door.

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