See that laundry cart over there (the one just left of center)? That's the one! He (or she, who knows WHAT gender they are, sure can't tell by lookin' at their skinny frame) attacked me several months ago, with no one else HUMANOID around. It was a knock-down, hard-floor, cold-core wrassle-and-punch fest. Nobody human to witness or pull a 911 on 'em. And me with my hands full (and feet, and arms, and legs, and torso and butt and COCK)!

So the OTHER laundry carts gang up on me, soon as I hit the ground! I finally get the upper hand, manage to EXTRICATE myself from this tangled drubbing, to beat a hasty exit.

That one (the right-of-center one...no, not the one in front but the one just BEHIND him...maybe you can't see him in the pic, I had to take a photo at night through the plate-glass window really QUICK, so's they wouldn't catch on) had the NERVE to follow me outside, for two friggin' LONG city blocks! TAUNTING me all the way, called me "Faggot!" at least a dozen times. DEMANDED I hand over all my boxer briefs, T-shirts and socks.

"Alright, I've had just about ENOUGH of this crap" I says to no one in particular, whip out my canister of pepper spray. And declare to the wiry punk: "You call me FAGGOT, then demand my UNDERwear? What are you, some kinda PERVERT?"

Well, I musta said the right thing 'cause the heavy-metal BITCH turns on her wheels and rattles swiftly in the other direction, vanishes in a FLASH.

Now, I don't cotton to laundry carts that can talk and walk. MY take is this: that laundromat's HAUNTED, and these carts are possessed by what I coin "Wash 'n' Dry Poltergeist". The previous owner, Margaret, died about twelve years ago. But that doesn't explain the OTHER spirits who inhabit the ADDITIONAL three or four carts. She prolly attracts them. Margaret was NOT a nice lady, I know that firsthand. Her face was always pinched in disgust, she always wore muddy-shaded, baggy drawstring workout pants and sweatshirts (no doubt unwanted droppings of her laundry clientele). She had washed-out, dish-watery blue eyes, and curly drab hair the EXACT shade of fuzz left behind in those dryer lint traps. Maybe she crafted WIGS outta the stuff!

One day while pouring BLEACH into a machine, it splashed up and into my face and eyes! Margaret was a mere 10 feet away, folding customer orders. "Margaret," I pleaded, covering my eyes with both hands, "I just spilled Clorox on my face. Please let me into your washroom to flush it out."

She just stood there, mute, defiant. So I runs ALL the way home to take care of it properly, CUSSING her all the way to my own sink, and DURING the washing, and DURING my return walk to the laundromat, and DURING the remainder of my time there (under my breath of course)...and DURING most of the rest of that stupid day. I never was friendly to Margaret again, and NEVER returned to that laundromat until AFTER her bless-ed extinction.

You could be reading a mag while your soapy-wet clothes are doin' the herky-jerky and the hokey-pokey and incestuous acts so naughty they'd wind up doin' PRISON laundry were they human...or just folding shirts and towels and dainty underthings...when one of those devil carts will just TAKE OFF unbidden by any human hand. Bump right up against you, as if it didn't know WHAT the heck it was doing! In fact, I know one PARTICULAR laundry cart that will ALWAYS roll away from you no matter HOW many times you set it against the dryer. I NO LONGER use that one. In fact, I don't even go NEAR it. There's more:

A few weeks ago I was by myself again, waiting for my clothes to dry and BORED out of my skull listenin' to that HORRID piped-in LaundroMUZAK, when three (get that: I said THREE, not two, not one, but THREE) laundromat carts roll smack dab into each other, then as a group, proceed RAPIDLY to the front doorway...my ONLY means of escape!

But I'm sharper than a tack and a FAST little fucker. I caught on QUICK, and just at the very last moment DASH towards the door, leaving my almost-done clothes behind (for later retrieval, with people present), and KNOCK those sinister wheelies asunder in my brazen depart.

Even more recent (oh, approx eight days ago):

Right when I insert a cabbage leaf into the change machine, this cart (not shown in photo) bumps right into my extended paw and DRAWS BLOOD. My quarters clankety-clank into their receptacle as BLOOD spills down on them from above, making them UNUSABLE for the nonce! I immediately return home to WASH the quarters and tend my wound. In hindsight, I suspect the COIN MACHINE is in cahoots with these forlorndry carts.

I ALSO surmise that these bully carts get around at night, once the laundromat is closed. And have ASSOCIATES on the outside, do their bidding. In fact, I have my PI on that shopping cart pictured below.

It was CAUGHT running drugs by a detective buddy of mine, last August. But RELEASED because the evidence had mysteriously disappeared before the case came to trial. My compadre though, didn't seem to mind one whit: he just grinned and grinned for WEEKS, glazed far-away look in those gorgeous golden-brown eyes. Is there a moral to this tale? Why yes, there is (and thank you for asking):

coffee, tea, or
get * together over
e-mail me...and we'll *
the web, whereby you can
you up to * discover my story on
my guardian angel Randolph * to set
* to present you with a * copy. Leaving it to
20 December 2007. Friend: I will not seek you out
(and directly * inspired this tale) on the day my mother * died:
jet-black-haired young man at * the laundromat, who made me laugh
This ghastly LaundroTale is dedicated to the charming, handsome and TALL,