The Dish Treatment

I hate dirty dishes. Always have. Inherited the clean gene from my ancestors. I also inherited the do what it takes gene. I know how to use the latter.

I also hate washing (a bunch…like all of ‘em) dishes. When I was in college and living with a gang of like-minded people, we had a solution to the problem of dirty dishes. We’d wait until they were all dirty, and rather than clean ‘em, we’d just throw ‘em away. All of them…everything…pots, pans, plates, bowls, forks, knives, spoons…everything. Hell, we would’ve thrown away the sink if we could…maybe the entire kitchen.

Beats the shit out of washing dishes.

Anyway, after I determined there was a better way (and much more economical) to deal with the dirty dish problem; I became obsessed with “there will be no dirty dishes syndrome”. In the past…I have been known as DishBoy, among other things. WagonBoy is another blurb altogether.

So, several years later, I was living with a buddy of mine who hadn’t seen the light…he just couldn’t get in the same game with me…this fucker was a slob. Have I mentioned I hate a nasty kitchen?

He would leave dirty dishes all over the house, and I would collect all of ‘em and put ‘em in his fucking bed. I did this every time he slipped up…and that was often. I would put the nasty-ass dirty dishes in his bed, and make it up for him. Yes indeed I would.

Finally, he moved out and told all my people…

…Don’t fuck with Yabu, or he’ll give you the dish treatment.