The Underwear Nazi

In my quest to realize that I do, actually, have things in my life worth writing about, I hereby commit to post a story a day, no matter how short, on this thing. I will start with the infamous, in my circle of college friends, story of the Underwear Nazi, a nickname which makes zero sense whatsoever, but has remained hysterical throughout the years.

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Freshman year. South Hall-- a monster of a dorm, the newest constructed on the campus, where the golf course originally stood.

In the cavernous basement, a place where you nervously glanced over your shoulder while walking to the stairs, trying to play it cool until you shrugged off the act and bound up to the first floor, praying your story doesn't end up on an episode of SVU, there were about 10 washers and 10 dryers. South Hall has 158 doubles and 51 singles. Competition for the laundry room was fierce and the price was steep. It costs less to do my laundry in New York City over a decade later.

I was relieved, then, to find an empty dryer on a Saturday afternoon. There were even people in the basement rec room, so no need to bound upstairs (needlessly) fearing for my life. It was my lucky day, then.

Which made it all the worse when, an hour later, keen on being timely and polite so as not to piss off whomever needed to use the dryer next, I gathered up courage to descend to the cavern and retrieve my laundry.

Which I found. On the laundry room table. Soaking wet. There were 2 minutes left in my dryer. Where someone else's clothes were spinning around. On my dime.

I was furious. Jerking open the dryer door, I grabbed the clothes of this evil, rude stranger and threw them on the table. This was not satisfying revenge. I now had to pay a further 3 bucks or however insanely much those dryers cost to dry my clothes, AGAIN, and waste another hour of a precious Saturday, because some b**** stole my dryer time. This person deserved more than just their clothes thrown messily on a table.

I poked through the pile of clothes. What could I do? There were an overwhelming number of granny panties in the pile. The answer became clear. It was like an enlightenment. I promptly picked out all of the ugly undergarments, walked over to the trash, and tossed them in.

An hour later I returned diligently to retrieve my clothes. There was a girl, folding the clothes I recognized as the evildoers. (Really? She was an hour late to get her clothes out of the dryer? Laundry room etiquette, anyone? Were you raised by wolves?)

It was my good friend's girlfriend.

If anything, then, I did him a service by throwing out all her god-awful underwear.

And that, my friends, is the true tale of the Underwear Nazi, who, incidentally, I see quite frequently, and randomly. She still has no idea.