The Inadequate Husband is a Shit Washing Machine

I was actually on a couch when I said this to the doctor. A real, bona fide psychiatrist-style couch. I'm sure if I hadn't been it wouldn't have sounded so nuts. But there you go. I began by telling him how I had been feeling inadequate recently, how my wife had taken on a greater professional workload with more responsibility as my own career stagnated. How she still did practically all the housework, and all the practical stuff like paying bills. I just couldn't find a way to help and she didn't seem to want to let me help. And then the washing machine broke, and after we had taken it to the tip I decided that I would be the washing machine. I nestled quite neatly under the formica, and when the oven next to me was turned on I was genuinely cosy. My wife seemed pleased or at least unaffected by my new specialisation. She fed socks, jogging bottoms, pillow cases and knickers into my mouth, tipped my head up and poured powder into my left nostril and fabric softener into my right. I juddered into action, glad to finally be of use. But when my cycle had finished all the clothes were filthy. If anything, they were worse than when they went in. You can imagine how that made me feel, I said to the doctor. I just don't know what to do any more. I thought of trying to replace the kettle, but I don't think I could deal with the hard water.