Early October, a gentle crisp in the air, it’s that magic time of year when the washing machines grow restless. Clothes washing machines. Big, white, inefficient metal boxes that live in your basement or out behind the garage. You may enjoy kicking them.

Their white enamel coats starting to brown with rust, the washing machines gather in yards and alleys. With no outward sign or signal, the washing machines rise as one and begin their long journey back to the dry, dusty fields near the Maytag and Whirlpool plants just over the Mexican border. Flying in formation, the washing machines cut a striking figure against the twilight sky. Hunters are no threat as many have learned terrible lessons about what effect falling appliances have on trusted hunting dogs.

So we stand in silent tribute to these mysterious creatures, these washing machines, as they soar above us, guided by we know not what, caught up in the eternal rinse cycle of life.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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