Today’s Douchebag is a functional inanimate object that has become dysfunctional. And it really pisses me off. I have a relatively expensive washing machine that is less than a year old. Only a few short months after we purchased it, something seemed to go awry. Suddenly, in the middle of a wash cycle, the whole machine would start to shake very aggressively and make this insanely loud noise. The first time it happened I was so freaked out, I thought the machine was going to explode. It looked and sounded like Al Roker (pre gastric bypass surgery) was in my washing machine being tossed around as if he was a fitted sheet. Clearly rotund Al Roker was not in my washing machine, and a few towels, t-shirts, and underwear should not cause so much drama.  Side note, big props to Al for losing all that weight, but is it me or did a lot of his jolly persona melt away with his cellulite? Skinny Al seems much more snarky. Like now when he says it’s going to rain for 3 days straight it’s really depressing.  Big Al somehow made rain fun. Maybe he’s just really hungry.

Anyway, I ended up calling a repair man and after doing a full exam of the machine, he told me there was nothing wrong with it. He suggested that if I’m washing towels, jeans, or anything on the ‘heavy’ side, each load should consist of even numbers, like 4 towels, but not 5. 2 pairs of jeans, not 3. He said the uneven numbers can throw off the balance of the machine.  HUH????  When I was growing up my mother had a washing machine that had been through 5 presidential terms, and I’m pretty sure the only thing she was counting were the amount of days until me and my pain in the ass sister went off to sleep away camp. (I love my sister dearly but she was a real nightmare during her ‘grunge’ phase.  And somehow she smelled like wet dog. And we didn’t have a dog).

As if the noise wasn’t enough, one day I started to notice that the ‘clean’ clothes coming out of the washing machine didn’t smell fresh and clean, they smelled stale and musty.  It was like a mix of old people and boys locker room. Specifically pubescent boys. It was gross.  This time I called a different repair man because I was suspect of the whole even number theory the other guy gave me. It’s always good to get a second opinion, whether it’s herpes or household appliances. The second repair man came, still couldn’t give me an answer for the volcanic tendencies of my washer, and as far as the smell, that was also a disappointment. I won’t bore you with his reasoning, but the best he could do was, it’s Florida, there’s lots of moisture, something about putting a light bulb in the machine to heat it up and kill germs (what??) and run a cycle with Clorox.  I said I would try the Clorox but he warned me that it might not completely take away the smell. Great, now I’m going to have to walk around smelling like a cross between Betty White and Justin Bieber. FML. I had no idea what that meant either, but one of my younger, hipper friends said it stands for ‘Fuck My Life’.  Acronyms generally irk me, but this one has its place. For the record, while I don’t want to necessarily smell like Betty White, I do love her and Golden Girls is everything. Bea Arthur was my spirit animal.

Anyway, washing machine, your foul play and foul smell make you the douchebag of the day.