My archnemesis, an unlikely foe,
is my old, leaky, evil dishwasher.
He’s a malevolent inanimate spirit rivaling the slithering serpent in Genesis,
making me want to disappear down a hidey hole.
I’d rather shoot him with a rusty revolver
than load him with egg yoke sticky plates and milk encrusted cups.
But I habitually stack each load to the brims after our evening sup.
I refuse to resign myself to this endless fate,
but I’m like Drew Barrymore pre Adam Sandler in 50 First Dates.
Day after day after day,
my pattern never sways.
Unless it does,
making me feel worthless like scuzz.
I watch the dishes quadruple,
snot crying and questioning my scruples.
So nightly I cram dishes into every nook and cranny like a game of Tetris,
so nothing, not even a wayward Tupperware lid, gets left in the sink.
While using a dish towel to wipe the counter clean of wanton wetness,
I relish in temporarily trumping the stationary rat fink.
But before I can beat him, one more tussle is required.
In anticipation my brow begins to perspire;
his last ditch efforts of domination via the attached garbage disposal are about to transpire.
Will he use the disposal to geyser germy sink gushings into my face?
Or will flipping the disposal switch give my finger an electrifying jolt?
The shock singeing me like a low voltage lightning bolt.
Either result leaves me in disgrace,
a sad participant of the human race.
On weekends, the battle is worse,
contorting my lips into a pouty purse
and requiring at least two if not three loads a day–
no matter how much I curse and pray.
No matter how many times I conquer my nefarious antagonist–
no matter what, he always manages to best this pitiful, albeit pretty, protagonist.