Okay, seriously, now. Does anyone know any actual Buddhist monks? I want to try an experiment with this Bosch dishwasher. #fb

So I had a crazy thought that Anita might be on to something with this whole Bosch thing. #fb

For those of you on Twitter, freaking out right now, don’t worry about who Anita is. It isn’t important, right now. #fb

Her Buddhist monk, Anita’s, that is, sang. Not like he gave people up to the feds or anything, but he sang. As in songs. #fb

Also, I don’t mean to imply that Anita owns a Buddhist monk. She was renting, of course. You can only buy Trappist monks. #fb

Now I fancy myself a bit of a songster. I am perhaps the only person with ears who considers myself this, but it’s someone. #fb

What if I could tame the beast (the number of this particular beast is SHE3AR55UC) with song? #fb

You’ve all heard my saga, what harm, right? Right? #fb

So this evening I performed all my usual prep. #fb

I put the children to bed and closed the soundproof door to their wing. #fb

I poured a half gallon of bleach into the Bosch dishwasher and ran it. #fb

When that was over I poured a half gallon of white vinegar into the dishwasher and ran it. #fb

I burned a small pile of incense. Didn’t actually have any incense on hand, so burned a plant we’d been growing on the kitchen sill. #fb

I don’t know that we were growing it intentionally, anyway. #fb

I said a small prayer to a vague enough god that at least one of them, should they be listening, might consider it meant for them. #fb

I put on a long, flowing robe, which is what I do when I sing. Or what I do when I’m getting ready to sing. #fb

I started to shave my head, got a look from my wife which I took to mean I should stop shaving my head, so I did. #fb

Her next look I took to mean that before I went back to the kitchen I should clean up the hair from the floor of the bathroom. So I did. #fb

I stood before the dishwasher in the light of a single, solitary candle flame with my half-shaven head. #fb

I rested the candle on top of the counter, above the dishwasher, amongst the stains of burnt plant. Can’t sing with things in my hands. #fb

One of the kids came in. Needed a glass of water. Got it for them. Gave them the look they were giving me back. Sent them to bed. #fb

Knelt before the dishwasher. #fb

The floor was kind of dirty, thought better of it, returned to my feet. #fb

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Caught my reflection in the glass, saw that I resembled a half-shorn fish. #fb

Collected myself. Began to sing. Sang like I’d never sung before! Loud and ringing! #fb

It was a Def Leppard song, which I realize may have been my mistake. #fb

Three, maybe four notes in, the dishwasher began making honking noises. #fb

Not like a goose, but like a truck. #fb

There was a great tearing sound from beneath the dishwasher, and jets of tepid, food particle-filled water gushed forth. #fb

I wasn’t going to be able to return the robes to the robe rental store. #fb

The dishwasher lurched forward through the spray, clanking down onto the floor, crushing a finger I probably shouldn’t have left there. #fb

I yelped, as you do when a dishwasher crushes your finger, and attempted to crawl away. #fb

The dishwasher on my finger made this difficult, of course. #fb

As the dishwasher rolled to one side to continue its approach, my flattened finger was freed, so I scrambled backwards. #fb

Of course, our kitchen is rather small, so I scrambled pretty much in place. #fb

The dishwasher door swung open and a deep, offensive blast of air hit me. It stank of the last seven nights of dinner. Or so. #fb

I instantly wished we’d used more parsley. #fb

I was stunned into silence. Of course, I’d stopped singing a while ago, but my singing and screaming may have sounded similar. #fb

The fetid roar of the dishwasher reverberated throughout the house like a sewer ‘gator stubbing its toe in the stinking depths. #fb

Only imagine the alligator had a megaphone and had also just been chewing on some dinner plates. #fb

When the roar subsided, so did the dishwasher. #fb

Opened my eyes, because, it turns out, a natural human reaction to being attacked by a Bosch is to close your eyes & cower a little bit. #fb

It sat there, grim, like only a pissed off dishwasher can. The floor was slick with detritus and soapy water. #fb

The little red ‘Clean’ light was illuminated. #fb