I paused, mid-swallow, and thought to myself, “No, surely root beer cannot attack as well. Was shattering my illusions that I might safely one day snuggle with the cutest Zoro-masked furballs in the rodent kingdom not enough for you, God?! Must you now taint my favorite non-Mr. Pibb soft drink with images of death, too?”

I considered the caps lock warning, hoping the only reason my root beer bore a disclaimer was because some overzealous fetus-loving organization had won a lawsuit against pregnant caffeine addicts, but then I remembered…A&W isn’t caffeinated. 

At this point I decided I might as well see what new phobia I could add to my list of Things That Make Me a Pussy and was confronted with the single most horrifying tidbit of information I could have read: 

CAP MAY BLOW OFF CAUSING EYE OR SERIOUS OTHER INJURY. POINT AWAY FROM FACE AND PEOPLE, ESPECIALLY WHILE OPENING.

Fine, I thought, I’ll point it away from my face while opening next time, unless I’m wearing my onion goggles, but how in the hell am I supposed to point it away from my face while I’m chugging out of it?

This was only the first of many disheartening contemplations the admonition evoked. Not only was I disturbed that even root beer could force me to relive my formative days as the only girl on my preschool campus sporting an eye patch, but I was troubled by the fact that, apparently, my mother has a secret second job in copywriting for A&W.

Now every time I see someone selecting a soda in a vending machine, I’m going to feel the need to scream, “Stop! You could put my eye out with that thing.” And I was just celebrating the fact that no one had hit me in the eye with a champagne cork over the holidays. I’m so glad my embarrassing urge to duck and cover my face every time someone mentions they’re thirsty is going to last year-round.

Thanks a lot, Authority of Dr Pepper/Seven Up, Inc. Don’t be surprised if you get an irate call on your 866 number when my Damnbien kicks in in another six to nine minutes. We’ll see who needs a warning then. Oh, we’ll see indeed.

So instead of serving up diet advice as I’d promised, I’ve decided to share with you some helpful tips I discovered last night while doing my delicates at the local Laundromat.

Most people dread doing their laundry in a publicly soiled basin under the watchful eye of security cameras. Most people are overlooking one very important fact: You can find more freaks per square foot in a Laundromat than anywhere else outside of a mental institution. But I understand. I, too, used to stare in disbelief as a homeless man attempted to squat into a washer. I also shook my head in disagreement when my millionaire father-in-law informed me that the Laundromat builds character. But that was all before I had developed a full appreciation for the fine people-watching that occurs at my local Alpine Cleaners Coin Wash. So, thank you, insane dude who really, really wanted me to know he’d been circumcised. Without your commitment to my entertainment and subsequently the pysch ward, I could not enjoy laundering my clothes at Alpine like I do today.

As a seasoned veteran of the self-serve fluff and fold, I’ve come to discover certain tricks and tactics for achieving a fast and efficient wash routine. I would have preferred to make a chart or Venn Diagram for the following segment, but seeing as how I have a lot of wet clothes to hang, I will just present the pitfalls and my unique pitfall solving opportunities below in paragraph form.

The most common problem I find at the Laundromat is my crippling fear that someone will steal my clothes. I fancy myself a Forever 21 fashionista, and the last thing I want is to turn my back only to find my $2 hot pink sweater has been swiped so that a crackwhore can sell it on eBay. I used to become so paralyzed by this fear that I could hardly pull myself out of the car, and instead sat there, clutching my Bebe jeans and suspiciously eyeing every woman who dared to look in my direction.

The best way to avoid this problem is to make sure you wear the ugliest outfit you can possibly pull together when visiting the Laundromat. The last thing you want to do is show up looking like J.Lo in a fur coat and $2,000 Christian Louboutins. Anyone seeing you in that getup will immediately mob you, beat you about the head with your stiletto, then make a run for it with your dirty clothes hamper. If you don’t have anything particularly hideous, make a burqa out of a sheet. If it ends up resembling a cheap ghost costume, all the better. Either way, no one will want what you’re washing.

Just last night I donned a brown and rust colored, horizontal-striped shirt from the ’70s that I found in my dead grandmother’s garage. I paired that hot little number with plaid pants so ugly they would have gotten me kicked off the golf course. I would say not to wash your hair a week beforehand, but if you’re a Laundromat regular, you’re already on to that trick. They all are. Then again, they’re also on to the whole not-wearing-fur-coats thing. Anyway, make sure not to wear makeup. If you just can’t go out in public without your makeup bag, I suggest taking a dark brown eye liner and adding a fine mustache just below your nose.  People don’t like to catch ugly coodies. Also, you’ll resemble an ill-dressed Hitler if Hitler were a female-to-male cross dresser. Scary indeed.

Another trick that helps is to establish solid eye contact with the person most likely to steal your clothes. Hold their gaze for a good four seconds, and without breaking your stare, bend down slowly until you can reach into your laundry basket. Gradually pull out a pair of underwear that you have doused with melted chocolate beforehand. Hold them to your mustache, inhale, then drop them into your dark load. You may then break eye contact if your subject has not already turned away to projectile vomit. Works like a charm.

I find that people in Laundromats are oftentimes oblivious to normal social etiquette. They’re quick to shank you over the last open washer or snag your soap if you leave it unattended. If you find yourself locked in the pretend-polite no-you-go, no-you, over the one remaining empty dryer on a busy day, I suggest marking your territory with a violent sneeze. Quickly apologize then say, “Oh, really, you should take it.” You don’t want to appear rude. Chances are, they’ll be so impressed with your fine manners that they’ll simply insist you take the freshly christened machine. If they get sassy about your snot spray, shrug and curtly remind them that it’s not like it isn’t going to dry; it’s a dryer!

Germ phobia is another common pitfall of the Laundromat. Why, if I allowed myself to consider all the bacteria and paramecium with flagellum foot from some gross stranger’s load, the remnants squirming around in my permanent press cycle, I’d really lose my lunch. (Though that might not be such a bad thing considering the high-calorie tub of whip I polished off.) In any case, we have no choice short of setting up a washboard in our showers or investing in a case of Fabreeze from Costco. Those of us who lack washer/dryer hookups are doomed to clean our clothes in other people’s dirt. I don’t have a solution for this. It simply makes me sick.

Make the most of this situation by saving stray pubic and head hairs in a baggie. Sprinkle them liberally over any crime scene you create and watch as the forensic scientists become nonplussed by the abundance of suspects. Tune in to your local news and wait to hear the story about a multiracial gang, with blonde Swedes, Hispanic men, and Asian grandmas wreaking havoc on the Southland. When that story airs you’ll know you’re home free. 

Whenever I’m stuck waiting for my loads to finish, I sometimes find myself perturbed by the unwanted advances of other launderers. In this situation, the best thing to do, is to not offend the lurker. Many frequenters of the mat drive windowless vans and will be quick to bludgeon you and drag you off with their camouflage pants just as soon as they dry. Avoid a confrontation by convincing them you’re insane. I find this not only works well, but it’s also more fun than playing Heads or Tails with your leftover quarters.

While I haven’t seen these people get hit on first, I have seen a lot of patrons at my local Laundromat employing this technique. From talking to themselves, to talking to the change machine in an angry scolding tone, I’ve been quite impressed with their dedication to warding off sexual harassment. The way one man pretended to be crazy by nearly lighting his beard on fire was really quite convincing. Follow his lead and with enough dedication, everyone will leave you alone in no time.

And finally, don’t take a book or a newspaper to read while you wait. Take a quick stroll to the donut shop on the corner, they’re ubiquitous in Laundromat strip malls. Get yourself a fritter (you’ve earned it!) and some more quarters, and wander back to the mat. Sit back, kick up your feet, and take a deep breath. That’s right. You are getting high off bleach fumes. That’ll help you enjoy the scene before you. If you’re as lucky as I am, you’ll also be in close proximity to a developmental center. Enjoy the people-watching, and remember: The Laundromat builds character and your immunities. Win, win.

Usually, my offers are met with scornful looks and head shaking, to which I want to reply, ‘Careful there, Hitler, one in one thousand babies has a confuse-a-clit, and with those kind of odds, you could be insulting at least two people within a fourteen square mile radius (A+ in geometry, thank you very much) – given that they have a cochlear device like the Miracle Ear.’ What kind of bastards eschews not only the transgendered, but the deaf(ish) trangendered? What kind, indeed.  

I am almost always offended by this blatant shunning of nature’s puppy surprise. (You remember the jingle: How many sex organs are there in side? There could be three or four or five.) It just really gets my goat. I mean, it’s not like I’m putting a free car wash on the table.  I’m not saying, ‘Oh, if you’ll just agree to hire me, I’ll give you a free prostate exam in the back of my windowless van.’ I am bribing you with that singular precious gift that we should all be so lucky to name Pat or Leslie or Clay. Nothing says “thank you” like a baby with extra gonads. Nothing! I expect a little gratitude for my generosity. Or so I thought… 

This part has been temporarily removed for its blatant offensiveness. Check back later.