June 3, 2004
My New Plate Scraper
So the piece of shit dishwasher they installed in this house crapped out two days ago, and with yet another round of out-laws coming to town this weekend I figured I'd better replace it. It was a toss-up between the KitchenAid and the Bosch. Both are superior products, with essentially the same features, but after some thought I came to the healthy conclusion that those Nazi bastards could kiss my ass. I bought the KitchenAid.
Yes, I know the Bosch dishwashers are made in New Bern, North Carolina, but still: those profits go back to Deutsche Bank at the expense of the tobacco proles who work that plant. Bilderbergs roll naked in those profits in Bavarian hideaways. Nope. It's the KitchenAid for me, made in Amerikkka.
Why, I'm sure you're asking, does a virile, studly man like you care about a kitchen appliance, anyway? Well, shutthefuckup and I'll tell you. I live in a house with three females. I do all of the outside work and half of the inside work. I love them, but my slags barely get their shitpaper in the rim, much less tidy up. And they have a maid! I'd fire her, but she is a Czech hottie who wears buttercutters that say "SEXY" across the ass as she's leaning over my bathtub for a good scrubbing. You men will understand. She's a keeper.
Back to my tale: so I don't give a good damned halloo who does my laundry or dishes, because it will not be me. Most of my clothes I dry clean anyway. Personally, I don't care if the dishes are licked clean, and the clothes are washed on a washboard in a number 8 tub out by the cement pond. In fact, from a purely emotional standpoint, I think that is the only way the bacon strips should be cleansed from my drawers.
I am attenuated to the ululations of the chore-laden, however, and I desire my peace. So out with the GE, and in with the KitchenAid. I must confess there is some thrill in a beast like this. I cannot wait to slosh some single malt around while I kick the tires in front of my father-in-law.
"Yup. Here's the bitch. Got yer stainless steel innards, yer five jet levels, this here would scrub Jesse Jackson almost clean. It's a bastid, I tell ya. Hums like a hoor. Too bad you ain't got one."
Which, of course, is the point. My in-laws crave whatever I have. They must have it immediately. Which is why I will laud my rectal stringwarts this weekend. Buy yourself some of those! I'll finance!
Anyhow, I have a new plate scraper. I figure the slags will break it in six months or so.