Called by the haunting cries, the natives gathered around the writhing beast to watch it in its death throes.
We were getting ready for work the other morning when a horrible clatter arose from the wasteland that is our basement. We gathered at the bottom of the stairs to watch our mortally wounded dryer shimmy into the center of the floor.
The natives donned their ceremonial loin cloths and makeup and wrestled for spears to see who would have the honor of killing the beast.
Honey was dressed in his undies. I had partial makeup. The cat (Sparky) was puffed up in fear. Honey and I both grabbed at the broom.
The tribe used a simple language of grunts and monosyllabic words to communicate.
Catty, "No! Me."
Honey, "No! Give."
Catty, "Uhn uh."
He argued that being the man entitled him to first poke at the machine. I argued that coming from a family of engineers made me more qualified to poke. We had both tapped into the primal urge to poke at dead things.
The natives began the ancient spear dance to celebrate the successful hunt and thank the beast for giving it's life to the nourishment of the tribe.
We circled the beast, er, dryer to make sure it was dead. Poking here and there at parts we both knew nothing about. Then began the task of contemplating repair or replacement.
The beast was divided into portions according to social standing within the tribe.
With the appliance repair guy living next door, I was pushing for repair. Honey's thoughts were that he bought the thing used twenty years ago and it was time to trade up to something more energy efficient. Fine with me, it's not like I'm allowed to use the washer or dryer.
The scavengers fight over the scraps of the hunt.
Sparky (the cat) still puffed to double his size, hisses at the dryer on the way to the litter box.
I go back to finishing my makeup. There is plenty of time to catch some NatGeo on ancient tribal customs. As I'm watching them dance around the fire, for a split second I think--their dryer must have died too.