You head down to the basement.

    Becky and Eva are having a business meeting there, but they scatter in terror when they see you in your shit-stained t-shirt.

    You walk on over to the laundry machines.

    "I don't understand why people put themselves through all this trouble just for clean clothes," you think to yourself.  "But I guess maybe this is an occasion that warrants the extra effort."

    Thus decided, you climb into the washing mashine, then reach up and hit the start button, and pull the door closed.

    It's only about the third or fourth time you've used this crazy machine, and the other times were when you were physically smaller.  It's pretty cramped in there, and you can't imagine how really fat people ever wash their clothes.

    The machine fills up with water, and you can hardly find air to breathe, and then the spinning starts.  You are whipped around at a ridiculous speed as you are soaked and struggle not to drown.

    After about five minutes, you can't handle another second.  You kick the door open and crawl out awkwardly as the machine slowly slows to a halt.

    Exteremely dizzy and gasping for air, you sit down for a few minutes and collect yourself.

    Eventually things stop spinning, and your breathing is back to a relative normal rate.
 
    You look down at your shirt.

    "Didn't even get very clean," you think to yourself.

    You look over at the dryer and shake your head.

    "Forget that," you say to yourself.  "I'll use the clothesline."

    You head out in back of the house and look at the clothesline.  There's no line on it.

    "Damn," you say.

    You walk back in the house, into the dining room.  Danny is there, filling out his lottery tickets.

    "Hi, Danny."

    "Hey, Brad," says Danny.  He looks up and sees you in a wet shit-stained t-shirt and underwear, soaked to the bone.

    "Hey, would you have any rope?" you ask Danny.  "I want to hang myself in the sun."

    "Rope?" says Danny.  "That's not the way to go, man.  If that's what you really wanna do, let me help you out."

    Danny walks out of the house, out to his cab.  He comes back with a small shiny silver blow dryer.

    "Oh, hey, thanks, Danny," you say.

    "You know how to use one of these?" asks Danny.

    "I think so," you say.  "Do I have to plug it in?"

    "No, no," says Danny.  "It's not electric."

    "Wow.  Cool.  Thanks, Danny," you say, taking his curious appliance with you out back.

    "Bye, Brad," says Danny.

    You look around for a temperature setting, but can't seem to find one.  Your hair is dripping all over the place, so you figure you better dry that off first.

    You hold the little blow dryer up near your head and pull the on switch.

    It clicks, but no hot air is emitted.

    You shake the little blow dryer, trying to get it to start up.  Suddenly...

    <<pop!>>

    The blow dryer sparks for a brief moment then a small amount of smoke pours out.

    Quickly you put in near your head, but it's not doing much good.  These dang solar-powered designs are cute, but not all that effective.

    And then you see a little piece of metal nearby lodged in the ground.

    "Oh!" you think to yourself.  "That must have been stuck inside the blow dryer!  No wonder it didn't work!  ...Should work now, though."

    You put the dryer up near your head again, but then you realize that standing out here in the cool breeze has really made your balls freezy-ass cold.  You decide to get them dried off first.

    You aim the dryer down at your nads and pull the on lever.

    <<pop!>>

    "YYYYYEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

    Danny comes walking out the back door and sees you doubled over in pain, blood dripping from between your legs.

    "Brad!  Damn!  That's no way to go out!  I thought you knew how to use that thang!"

    "AAAAAAWWWWWWGHHHH!" you say.

    Danny walks back to his cab and gets a gallon jug of kerosene out of his trunk and some old rags.  He walks back into the backyard and sees you writhing in pain on the ground in the backyard, soaking wet, in a shit-stained t-shirt and your undies, bleeding from your crotch.

    He calmly kneels beside you, lays you flat out, and administers one of his patented brisk kerosene rubdowns.

    Half an hour later you feel a hundred times better.

    You eat dinner with the family in your shit stained t-shirt and blood-soaked underwear.

    You thank Danny for his assistance with your blow dryer accident, and tell him that as much as you're a concerned environmentalist, you'll stick with the big electric machines until the scientists work out some better solar-powered appliances.

    Danny just shakes his head.

    You head downstairs to the basement for some much needed rest.