Yesterday I went to work early, left early, and then went to Target to buy a pressure washer. A pressure washer, for the uninitiated, is a machine you attach to your garden hose that makes the water come out at the speed of light. The reason why you would want to use this is if your deck is dirty or if the WWW is coming for you at warp three. In my universe, “WWW” is always Wicked Witch of the West. World Wide Who?

So anyway, I have a pressure washer, a device that will bring great pleasure to my unclean soul. My pressure washer will propel me up to heaven, where I can have cawfee with Jerry Falwell and we can talk about you behind your back. He told me he doesn’t like you very much, which is not surprising. He says you’re ugly and caused 9/11 with your potty mouth.

The best thing about the pressure washer, besides this upgrade to my social life, is the line in the instruction booklet that reads: “Keep machine clean. Do not use machine to wash itself.” Like Mr. Mytzlplk, the pressure washer can only be defeated by its own power.