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Valentine’s Day is upon us! The laundry pod-filled day we look forward to all year! A time for gorging on heart-shaped laundry pod candies, exchanging Whitmans samplers of assorted laundry pods, and – wait, what’s that? *presses earpiece with index finger* We have some breaking news coming in . . . apparently we are not doing this thing anymore. I repeat: eating laundry pods is over!
This is a catastrophe! Expressing devotion to our intimate partners through festive laundry pod gifting is a time-honored tradition that we can trace back to our early creation stories.
“It’s just an aphrodesiac, honey. Eating it will totally not condemn your gender to doing all the laundry for the next bazillion years. I promise.” *Eve and snake snicker madly*
How in the hell are we supposed to celebrate Valentine’s Day now?
Don’t pretend like this isn’t his fault somehow
Fortunately, author Chuck Tingle has an idea about this. A wonderful awful idea.
Chuck Tingle, who has in the past provided essential crypto-currency investing advice in There’s a Bitcoin in My Butt and He Is Handsome*, illuminated the key to social media success in Taken Hotly by My Handsomely Physically Manifested Hot Take**, and explored the metaphysical conundrum of “self” in Pounded in the Butt by My Own Butt***, comes through with the solution to a problem we didn’t even know we had. And the solution is laundry pod butt sex.
The hero of Slammed in the Butt by My Handsome Laundry Pod, Greg Henderson, has a problem: he has driven like Hell on wheels to get to the classic car show in time to register his automotive masterpiece, but speeding through the dusty desert has left his rad ride a caked-on, stuck-on mess! How will he win the show now? The car show staff takes pity on him, and directs him to a secret car wash in the hills that can attend to his every need.
Greg is floored by the mad cleaning skills of the mysterious, bundled-up car wash proprietor,
Tide Ultra – I mean – Tine Ulbra. And by “floored” I mean “completely turned on.” It turns out that Tine’s people, the laundry pods, have been forced into hiding, due to the voracious appetites of a YouTube-addled public. Greg encourages Tine to shed his protective wrap, and expose his true self: a totally ripped, laundry pod-headed master of white foamy suds. And it just so happens that Greg is feeling pret-ty dirty right about now!
I won’t spoil the thrilling twists and turns that ensue, as Greg deepens his relationship with the handsome laundry pod by having sex on the hood of the car as the car makes it way through the sensual brushes of the car wash – darn it! I just spoiled that, didn’t I? Sorry! And I definitely want you to be surprised by the tender nicknames Greg uses with Tine, calling him his little “sentient cleaning tool.” Ugh, I ruined that one too! It’s almost as if I don’t really expect any of you to actually read this book, which is crazy!
Anyway, the moral of the story is that you can still light that romantic spark without eating any laundry pods. Except that Greg totally ate that laundry pod. DAMMIT! I did it again!
You’ll just have to read this book if you want to learn about the couple’s radical proposal that will lead us out of the darkness that is a post-laundry-pod-ingestion world. As with any piece of visionary literature, this work has left me with more questions than it answered. For example:
Tine hints they are “manufactured,” but it seems unlikely that a populace that sticks any old brightly-colored piece of crap in their mouth regardless of toxicity could develop a scientific program sophisticated enough to produce this level of magnetic laundry-themed sex appeal. Maybe they are from another planet? If so, why are they here? Is it to bring the experience of orgasmic cleanliness to the teeming masses of humanity, thereby elevating our collective spirituality and bringing lasting peace? Or have they come to save us from being too damn lazy to just fucking scoop laundry detergent into the washing machine because holy shit it isn’t that hard and FFS we deserve to have to suffer through reboots of Magnum PI, Murphy Brown, and Columbo if this is how it’s gonna be.
Handsome aerosol cheese cans are calling nexties on butt slamming
I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense to open something clothing related? I get the sexiness of the doing it in amongst the giant rotating brushes and around muscular gleaming hot rods, but isn’t there some kind of dry cleaning apparatus that would be just as sexy, and allow them to do the job they were biologically engineered to do?
Like this . . . but waaaaaaaay sexier
Or is part of the Tine’s tragic existence that the pod people are prohibited from answering their higher calling due to the backward ideas of a pod eating human race?
I feel like maybe, hear me out, laundry pod people wouldn’t just look like actual people with a laundry pod head. It’s highly unlikely that conditions on the laundry pod planet would be similar enough to Earth’s atmosphere and elemental composition to produce basically a human with a whack, swirly face. I’m thinking they would use their “agitators” to create a smorgasbord of pleasure: the “fluff and fold,” the “rinse, drain, and spin,” and, of course, the scream-inducing ecstasy that is the “oversized load.”
I’m this guy, except for sentient laundry pod sex-beings
I have to say, I feel a little cheated that Greg and Tine’s story was so short. I appreciate that we’re treated to a bonus “tingler” that delves into the unusual dessert cravings of a modern-day woolly mammoth chef**** , but I wanted to find out what happens to the couple back in civilization, and hopefully read about them using their inspiring story to promote laundry pod safety at the highest level of government.
“If you thought my tax plan was great, hold on to your . . . hats!”
In conclusion: Happy Valentine’s Day!!! Have fun sticking concentrated detergent pouches wherever you crazy kids are sticking them!
* His advice: stick it in your butt
** The key: have sex with your takes in the butt
**** Dessert is butts