For the past couple of months, I have seen the towel population decline in our humble abode, particularly in the boy's bathroom, where an entire linen closet full of said textiles had apparently vanished into thin air. On the other hand, the aforementioned bathroom was now featuring the Mount Everest of all dirty laundry, which had overflowed the hamper to the point in which you could not see the floor.
Yesterday, I decided to do a couple of loads of laundry for ballistabob and myself. Since the load featured a couple of towels, I decided to go to the boy's bahtroom and wash some of theirs with ours, so to justify a full load of laundry.
Lo and behold! The more I started digging towels out, the Himalaya of laundry started diminishing at dizzying speed, as the Monster of the Boy's Bathroom turned out to be made mainly of towels.
By the same token, assorted stuff started popping out of the mountain, including girlie magazines, random disposable contact lenses (new), and even a brand new 12 pack of toilet paper(!).
Four loads of laundry, and an entire linen closet of freshly laundered towels later, El Brato makes his triumphant entrance into the house.
"Hey, you brat!" I tell him. "What's the story with not washing towels? Are you guys afraid of them? Have you been attacked by one or what?"
"Nah" he replies. "We're lazy. We just wash the ones we need when we need them."
"Well, this needs to stop. Right now, you have a closet full of towels, a clean bathroom, and the spare rolls of toilet paper now live where they're supposed to, in the closet as opposed to the floor!"
"We had no toilet paper on the floor!" Says El Brato indignantly.
"You did too!" I reply. "It was hiding under the gynormous pile of dirty towels!"
El Brato screws up his face in sudden realization: "We had toilet paper?"
Like I said.
Can't live with them, can't sell them for profit.
It's the Y chromosome, I tell you.
Now, if we could just cure them of their fear of towels . . .