HowTo:Remove a washing machine from the face of the earth
“ WHAT THE FUCK, what would I need to know that??”
So, you've got one of those washing machines, you know, the kind that doesn't work properly. Or maybe you know of one that's guilty of that most heinous of crimes, that of taking up valuable space under the carport. Whatever the case may be there is sure to be a washing machine in your life that's just begging to be removed from the gene pool in such a way as to generate maximum penis envy from the neighbors who simply haul it off to the dump. In short, your machine is a disease which must be eradicated, but fear not! We've got The CURE. So face your adversary. Look that washing machine in the eye, grab your crotch and yell "I've got your penicillin right here!"
Ingredients you'll need[edit]
- A galvanized steel 1.5″ X 12″ nipple (That's plumber-talk for a 1.5″ X 12″ length of pipe, threaded on both ends.)
- Two cast iron 1.5″ endcaps, which will later be threaded onto the pipe.
- A container of Pyrodex®. Ask for it by name, think gun powder, only more powerful. It can be found at your friendly neighborhood firearms dealer, in the candy isle, next to the Hannah Montana DVDs. Tell 'em it's for an old muzzleloader.
- A long length of fuse. This can be purchased "under the counter" from your local BATF agent or fireworks dealer. Note: If you are only able to acquire a short length of fuse then then you need to improvise either by fabricating a makeshift ignition time-delay device or by being in possession of 2 functioning legs equipped with Run like a Motherfucker™ technology.
- A handful of nuts, bolts, ball bearings etc. This will be interlaced with the Pyrodex® to aid in the production of shrapnel and to help promote good will towards man.
- And of course you will need, the machine.
Location, Location, Location[edit]
You will need a nice secluded locale to carry out this cleansing operation, a place where loud booming noises go unheard. Find someplace deep in the woods. A place so far removed from civilization that even the sounds of nature, be they the burbling of a stream or the sound of a whippoorwill, are but a memory, and in their absence is the glorious Dueling banjos soundtrack from the movie Deliverance. Only when you find yourself within tobacco spittin' distance of either a meth lab or a moonshine still will you find solace as electric daydreams begin to wash over you...dreams of hollerin' "Squeal like a pig" whilst indulgin' in a bit of the ol' man-rape. Sublime visions of Ned Beattys' sweet ass will dance in your head, as will the delicate notes that resonate from your hand as you slap his white, sweaty, quivering mounds.
It will be so real you can touch it! Only then when you can hear, touch, see, and fantasize of these things will your quest to find the perfect location come to fruition. Reward yourself with a passage from Walt Whitmans Leaves of Grass as your hard-on subsides.
Before we go any further, an apology...[edit]
To you, my dear reader, for due to the sensitive times in which we live I will be unable to produce a proper rendition of the sublime process which results in the previously listed ingredients coming together in sacred matrimony. In lieu of detailed instructions we will instead supply this little flight of fantasy. Imagine, if you will, that you are lying on a beach...close your eyes. Smell the warm salty air and feel the sand between your toes. Next, take a balloon in your hand and fill it with minty-fresh breath whilst being sure to seal off the aperture between exhalations with a pinching motion produced by two of your penis manipulators. Do this until the balloon bursts, leaving behind only an invisible candy cane scented cloud with just a touch of halitosis as proof of it's existence. Now wake up. Replace beach with BFE (Butt Fuck Egypt; i.e., a secluded locale), balloon with airtight steel casing, and breath with oh say...a stick of TNT. Finally, picture the balloon resting comfortably inside a large household appliance and you get the idea of things to come.
A moment of silence[edit]
Before we set the dial on the machine to its final delicates cycle and send it on that journey of everlasting peace, let us first look back in remembrance over the good times and bad as shared with it between yourself, friends and family. You may remember being united for the first time with that special someone on a cold Christmas morning by the fire. You were mesmerized by it's gleaming white paint and purity of line. Rarely is such beauty achieved without flaw however. The dent on the side which proclaimed "20% discount on floor sample" to some was simply looked on by you in the same light as the mole on Cindy Crawfords chin, a defining characteristic that just made you want to hug it even more. Try NOT getting teary eyed with remembrance of getting dizzy as you sat in its drum and your brother spun you around endlessly. Alas, if you think hard enough, the tears of joy will turn to fits of rage with the recollection of the time it's belt broke, rendering it useless right in the middle of the "washing-your-cum-stain-out-of-mommas-panties-cycle."
Take this rage you feel and embrace it, cherish it, loooove it, give it a reach around and make it smell your finger, and finally, take it with you to the next step...the final chapter. It is in this spirit that we will henceforth refrain from calling it a washing machine and instead refer to it as..."the departed".
Pooft!...Bitch be Gone![edit]
Yes friends it's that time. Time to fit the noose, time to say your last goodbye. Time for the final salute. Yes friends, the time has come to VAPORIZE that mother fucker. After you pass out the congratulatory cigars commemorating the birth of a brand new 3lb bouncing baby low expolsive device, take the steel firecracker of death in your hands and hold it against your bosom. Wish it safe passage into the afterlife and success in it's jihad mission against the evil Maytag empire. Rock it back and forth and sing it lullabyes as you attach a cigarette to the fuse in order to imbue it with delayed ignition capabilities. As it drifts off into peaceful slumber, place it inside "the departed" next to the photo of a loved one. Light the cigarette. Note the difficulty in accomplishing this task with the pounding of your heart and the shaking of hands making accurate flame placement difficult. With the fuse lit quickly close the lid and place upon it an object of substantial weight, then reach down into your trousers and start working your own personal delicates cycle with a little bit o' thumb agitation on yer mushroom tip. Soothe your nerves by reading yet another passage from Leaves of Grass, and then...RUN LIKE HELL! Take shelter behind a small paper cup or a large tree...your choice. Wait for what seems like hours as the death clock counts down. Decide you're tired of waiting and start heading back to the scene to...
BOOM![edit]
Feel the concussion on your chest![edit]
O' the THUNDER! Wait a minute...is that? I'll be damned. Now you've got your own little travel-sized mushroom cloud to play with. Isn't it just precious. After giving the lonely Maytag Repairman a penis-slap across the chin (having properly answered the question of who his daddy is), you will feel a compulsion to visit the center of the blast radius to view the charred remains...and you will be disappointed. Disappointed at the utter lack of remains. Where are they? Which way did they go? Dammit! You wanted to see body parts strewn across the land accompanied by the acrid reek of death in your lungs and all you got was this little black spot of earth and dreams of what could have been. Sigh. You begin to hear a rustling of leaves, the sound of squirrels playing overhead perhaps. Close your eyes and tilt your head back. Take a deep breath. Imagine "the departed"...mentally trace the path of it's final ascent into the heavens above. Open your eyes. HOOOOOLY SSHHHHIIIIIT! Do you remember that episode of CSI where the dead scuba diver was found in a tree? Looked um...out of place didn't it? As will the sight of the mangled carcass of a washing machine hangin' off a branch, chillin', 75ft up in the air, and performing a stunningly accurate impersonation of a red-assed monkey if I do say so myself.