This agression will not stand

Unlike some people I know, I'm not too obsessive when it comes to my laundry. Because I wear the same six pairs of pants every week, I need to get it done over the weekend. I prefer to get it done on Saturdays because my summer Sundays are spent playing softball in Brooklyn. This past weekend I let it slide, figuring I would get it done during what I call "the Bachelor's Slot." When I've had to do my laundry using the one washer and dryer in the basement of my building, I've never had any trouble using the machines late on a Sunday night. Most responsible people have already done what they need to in preparation for the week ahead. But a carefree bachelor, not beholden to the same schedules as the typical responsible family person, keeps his own schedules. So, I threw the first of my two loads (yes, I still separate) into the washing machine just before John from Cincinnati went on (I'm beyond help at this point), figuring it wouldn't be a problem to wait until the show was over before throwing it in the dryer and starting my second load. Imagine my surprise and irritation (not to mention the throbbing headache this week's episode of JFC gave me) when I discovered that someone had removed my wet clothes and left them on top of the dryer so that they could throw their load into the washer. Not cool. I'm sorry, but where I come from you don't touch another man's soggy drawers. That ain't right. That dog won't hunt (whatever that means). This aggression will not stand! Not only did this mean that I would have to miss some of this week's Entourage (yet another horrible episode!) while I waited for the invader's washing cycle to end (guess where his soggy drawers were going!), but that I would have to strategically time the drying cycle of my first load in order to enact Phase 2 of my retaliation. And there was where I had the upper hand! Since I knew exactly when I had threw my first load into the dryer, I would know exactly when it would stop and be ready to accept my second load, bypassing completely the invader's drenched duds still lingering on the top of the dryer. My plan went off without a hitch (except for one strange moment when I thought somehow one of my socks had gotten mixed up with the invader's soaked stuff--as it turns out, I was missing a sock, but the stray turned up in my apartment. Thank God. Could you imagine the ignominy of having to ask the invader if he had an extra sock? The horror!). I even had the satisfaction of meeting my defeated enemy on the battlefield as my second load was nearly dry. "I'll be done in five to ten minutes," I said triumphantly as he poked his head through the basement door. He bowed his head silently and trudged back up the basement steps in utter misery. I've never folded clothes in a more buoyant spirit!