Continue Reading Below Advertisement

I also note that none of you have dared try laundering my shirt here, which tells me I'm on the right track. You know you've done something wrong, like a puppy whimpering at his sad little turd in the middle of the kitchen floor. And now you're trying to conceal the turd that is your laundry crime. Maybe you've hidden the shirt at the bottom of a drawer, hoping that drowns out the screams that haunt your dreams. Maybe you only wear it when you're several blocks away from home, peeling off your outer layers like some kind of Laundry-Thief-Superman. Or maybe you only put it on at night, in the safety of your own home, prancing back and forth in front of the mirror, delighted in your own deviancy, you sick fuck.

Continue Reading Below Advertisement

Well, you've had your final warning. Return my shirt before shit gets real.

You've had your warnings about oncoming shit-realness. And now I've stolen several of your own garments. Yeah. Not that many of you seemed to notice. In fact, none of you have. I sort of hoped that this might cause everyone to share in my sense of victimization and take this whole laundry-thief thing more seriously. Torches and pitchforks and baying hounds, all to track down the real villain here.

Continue Reading Below Advertisement

That's the original laundry thief, by the way, not me. I'm more like an antihero here, I think.

But with not even the tiniest bay from even the tiniest hound, I decided to change gears and just flat out blackmail each and every one of you, you laundry thieves and laundry-thief enablers. How would I do this? Well, you'd be surprised how much you can learn about a person by their clothes. Things like ...

Apartment 101: You either lead a very exciting life or are a really sloppy drunk, to judge by both the number and sheer size of some of the skid marks you've left. If my shirt isn't returned, I'll ... well, I guess I've told everyone already. I'll probably just stay upwind of you.