An Ode to the Abandoned Tuxedo Pants I Found on the Sidewalk Today

Upon the occasion of discovering a pair of black tuxedo pants lying on the side of the road:

O Tuxedo Pants, quickly cast astrewn
Why hath thy master forsaken ye here?
A leg on the sidewalk, th'other the street--
Languished luxury lying listlessly.
A grievous offense could'st I not conceive
As fair cause for thy careless discarding
(If indeed such a sin slacks could commit).
Didst thou meet the pavement from an ill fit--
Too few or too many doughnuts consumed?
Didst thy get the toss in (dare I speak it)
A frightful and furious fit of lust?
Encounter with a lady of the night?
Sudden necessity to disrobe quick?
Swelt'ring heat promoting thy removal?
Truly? Pants on the ground. Pants on the ground.
Forgotten adjustable-waist trousers,
Smold'ring in the heat of the sunlit day,
Embrace thy strange rest; thou shalt strut no more--
'Less a de-pantsed gentlemen find thee here,
Praise his fortuitous turn, and get dressed.

A Can't-Miss Business Venture for All You Capitalists Out There With Flexible Morals

A Laundromat Strip Club.  The most appropriately inappropriate establishment of all time.  You're welcome.

An Open Letter to the Cockroach I Saw in the Laundry Room

Dear Tiny Manifestation of Evil,

So, we finally meet.  You: the first naturally occuring cockroach I have ever seen.  Me: mild-mannered student teacher by day, part-time super hero by night.  There was a definite moment as I entered the laundry room and you paused in your scurry across the floor that our eyes locked.

We stared at one another, sizing each other up for a good few seconds.  Then, as we nonchalantly went our seperate ways, we continuously turned around to monitor each other's paths.  No doubt, you were considering the brute strength that must lie within each of my disproportionately toned arms (Hey, I'm working on the shoulders, alright?  Lay off.  LOOK AT YOUR LEGS, SHRIMP!).

Listen, let me lay this out for you in a language that you can understand.  I have no quarrel.  I do not bite my thumb at you, sir.  You pose no threat to me as you scamper across the floor, looking for God knows what (as it was past midnight, I'm forced to assume you were out looking for a lady friend).  I live on a much higher floor, whereas you live in the basement, or you were just visiting.  So long as you remain below ground level, in the land of dryer lint and the occasional pipe leak, we have no beef.

But I swear to Eric Clapton, if you so much as stick one little antennae into our hallway, I will sick the baby panther on you and she will rip you into a dozen nuclear-radiation-resistant pieces.  Sure, you might have the upper hand when it comes to longevity, but who is more likely to survive the swift justice of the bottom of my sneaker?  Me, that's who.  Don't ask questions.

Listen, bug, I've wasted enough of my time writing this patient, heartfelt letter that you can't read cause yous straight ignant.  You've probably already been smashed by someone since I started this tome, so I will wrap it up and wish you a good night far below my apartment, stuck to the squeaky wheel of a laundry cart.

Please Clean the Lint Screen

To borrow a saying from my grandmother, why is laundry such a pain in the patooshki? I mean seriously! My grandmother can turn a phrase.

No but 4 realz yo, where are those magical laundromats that you see in music videos and stuff where lots of co-eds hang out, and gorgeous girls decide to throw what they've got on in the wash, and kids line the floor with detergent for a do-it-yourself Slip N Slide? I want to go to that laundry room, not the one in the basement of this building, where granny panties appear mysteriously and people give me dirty looks when I pull my Halloween costume out of the dryer. Seriously, folks.

Although, to be fair, this was my Halloween costume:


POST-SCRIPT: When I was in college, I accidentally left my clothes in the dryer too long. When I finally remembered and ran into the laundry room, I feared the worst. Instead, some girl had folded my clothes into neat, adorably coordinated piles. I don't know who you are, m'lady, but I love you. Really. Please come find me in New York so we can Snuggle.