A message to Christian earlier today, recorded for my own amusement in the distant future:
That being said (and what it was will be lost in time, like peacocks in the rain), I believe that doing laundry during the night is the correct moment to accomplish such an important task.
- It allows you to prance around with an exposed, lye-caked penis as you do calisthenics in the neighbourhood.
- It provides a time for zen-rapture as you stare at whorling linens whilst baked on quaaludes.
- It earns you the respect of your landlord’s teenage daughter, who secretly wants you to scour her orifices with your raw, lye-mottled penis.
- No shaving (the most boring process known to mustelidkind) is necessary.
- There is no five.
- Every time one of your pieces of linen is sufficiently clean, one member of any of the number of marching bands practising for the Easter parade in Logroño explodes into a shower of gore.
- You grow an additional nipple on your left buttock.
