I’m ringing in the new year by, well, wringing out the dish towel. Forget a party until dawn—it’s more like a party with Dawn dish soap. I’d raise a toast to 2025, but let’s be honest: all my glasses are so filthy, they’re practically growing cultures. At this point, my dirty fine china could probably fill up actual China. Maybe I should just pack it all up and ship it overseas. But knowing my luck, customs would send it back with a note: “Nice try. No take-backsies.”
Honestly, I’m starting to think washing these dishes isn’t enough. This situation calls for a full-blown decontamination team. Should I be wearing a biohazard suit just to handle my silverware? I knew I should’ve gone with an incinerator instead of a garbage disposal. It’s gotten so bad that even the pot and the kettle have stopped calling each other black—they’re both too ashamed to talk.
It’s like my cookware has been cursed by demons. If this kitchen were haunted, I’d actually be thrilled. Let the ghost toss the plates, scrub the pans, and maybe even scare away the roaches while it’s at it. Honestly, I’d consider leaving a Ouija board as a job application. “Dear Ghost, aim for the sink. Benefits include free room and board.”
Honestly, I’m this close to giving up the life of grime for a life of crime. Forget mugging people for their wallets—I’ll just hand them my gross coffee mugs and call it a trade. Instead of telling them to fork over their valuables, I’ll make them take my possessed forks. Prison’s probably cleaner than my kitchen, anyway, and at least I wouldn’t have to do the dishes there.
And as I stood there, staring at the mountain of dirty dishes, I couldn’t help but think: Should old acquaintance be forgot? Honestly, that’s fine—as long as they don’t drop by and see this mess. Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m keeping my kitchen in “Auld Lang Slime” condition for the new year.
Happy New Year, I guess?