I believe in “pressure cleaning” my clothes. It’s a highly scientific method that works on the molecular level.
I pile all my dirty clothes up on the floor, and the weight of the clothes on top of the pile slowly pushes the assorted dirt and odors from the clothes below into…um, the floor? Maybe into outer space. Either way, gravity effectively cleanses my clothes, without harmful detergents, or more importantly, the need for me to drag my hungover ass down to the washing machine in the basement.
Pressure cleaning also uses the Theory of Relativity (I told you it was scientific). Eventually, the clothes underneath the pile are relatively cleaner than the ones on top. Then they go on top of the pile, and the cycle begins anew. It’s quite beautiful, really.
Anyway, this explains why I got to work tonight and realized that there was…something…on my jeans. The jeans were last worn a few days ago, which means they were at the bottom of the cleaning pile long enough that they smelled okay (I checked), but not long enough for the pressure to remove the…something (I thought I checked, but I was half asleep and not as vigilant in my search for “things” as I might have been).
I know what the something is. I know how it got there. I know who put it there. It’s barely noticible, but not something most people have on their pants at work. And I should be horribly disgusted at the whole idea, but in a twisted way I’m finding it amusing.
I can tell you this though: The shirt I wore that same night is gonna be at the bottom of the pile for quite some time.