My washing machine can bite me. Actually, I shouldn't say that. It's quite possible that it could bite me if it wanted to. After all, it ate the pair of pants in the picture. Yes, that's an entire pair of big girl pants. Only a portion of one leg is visible in the picture because the rest of the pants were hidden under the agitator. Why did it betray me in this way? Perhaps all my years of overloading the washer have caught up with me. Maybe it didn't like that I sometimes mix white clothes and brightly colored clothes that have no history of bleeding. It could be some kind of protest against chlorine bleach.
Immediately upon realizing the tragedy that had occurred, I set out in an attempt to take the washing machine apart. I figured there had to be a way of getting the agitator off of there. I blame my fascination with deconstructing stuff on watching endless hours of Mr. Wizard's World as a child. I called my daddy. He has slain his share of washing machines. We discussed possible ways to dismantle it. I took a plastic cap off the end (oops, I don't think it was meant to come off, in retrospect). There was nothing under it to loosen. He bailed on me (no doubt he feared I would blame him for any additional damages I incurred). I found the model number and typed it into the manufacturer's website, but it "could not be found". The liars. I called a customer service representative and they said they could get a user's manual out to me in 5-7 business days. Yeah, I'll just smell like a pygmy fainting goat in the meantime because I can't wash clothes.
After 45 minutes of wiggling, yanking, cursing, and 'raging against the machine', I finally emerged with my textile trophy. It has a few frayed places that it didn't have before, but it's still wearable.
Too bad I'm afraid to feed it any more clothes, but at least I can do a killer goat impersonation to compliment my new found smell.
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