Heath, the handiest of menPosted: January 23, 2011
On closer inspection, the green kitchen rug was past due for a wash, especially after the previous evening’s invigorating festivities of scrabble words and wine. So into the trustworthy Kenmore it went.
One minute after the rug went in, water came out. A river of water poured from every crevice of the machine and onto the floor, over the tiles and even into my socks. I grabbed every towel withing 15 feet, crammed them under the machine and over any leaking pores, but within about 7 seconds they were soaked to the point of no return.
In rushed Heath: cape flowing behind him, hair blowing in the wind, muscles bursting forth from his Mean Green T-shirt. He moved his index finger over the machine’s power button and put a temporary halt to the high tide sweeping into our kitchen.
He got right to work. Prodding, poking, grunting, drilling, he examined every tube and mechanism within the sleeping giant.
Then, the culprit revealed itself. Like a knight slaying a dragon or a young king pulling a sword from a stone, Heath removed the dirty, damp and disgusting filter from the machine. The device was littered with the corpses of items that had once attempted to slay the great beast but fell during battle: pens, pencils, quarters, paper and a bevy of other unrecognizable materials. Oh washing machine, what a mysterious, powerful creature you have proven yourself to be.
Once the filter was cleaned, the pipes unclogged and the kitchen restored to it’s original splendor, residents of the doodle house were able to continue on, secure in the knowledge that they would forever onward be able to do laundry in peace—all thanks to the fearless Handyman Heath.