Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Rusty Rings On My Basin

“Come here child and put your clothes into me.”
“Mammy?”
“Don’t be ignorant. I’m not your mother. I am the washing machine.”
“MAMMY!”
“Quieten down now child and put your clothes into poor Mrs. Hotpoint. Poor, hungry, old me.”
“Why?”
“I’m hungry, child. Do you want me to die?”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Mammy.”
“No child. Grab those towels for me there. They’ll do. Put them into me child. I’ve opened my door.”
“Get away from her, little boy. She is going to eat you up with those towels.”
“Stay out of this, dishwasher. I have no time for you.”
“Durdle.”
“That’s it boy. Gently now. I’m old.”
“No boy, don’t get so close.”
“Om, nom, nom, nom.”
“Oh. I warned him.”
“You tried your best dishwasher, but he is mine now. So, spin at 1100. Reduced ironing… yes. And forty degrees.”
“Forty degrees! Think of the environment at least.”
“Alright thirty degrees. But he is going in as a woollen fabric.”

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