My Phone. My Fucking, Fucking Phone

What is one of the most unfriendly places for a cell phone?

*ding fucking ding*

Guess where mine is at this very moment?

Guess how I used some mad detective skills to solve this fucking crime?

My cell was ringing earlier this evening. I will admit to accusing my offspring, Butter, of "hiding it in a secret place." I used a cajoling tone of voice when I asked him about this. He said he had no idea where the phone might be HIDING.

Whatever.

The Pack Mule? He hrumphed about the ringing. And hrumphed as though I'm the only person alive who's misplaced something. Whatever to him as well.

It's almost fucking 2am here, people.

I couldn't go to sleep without finding my cell. Which brings me to this admission.

I started a load of laundry.
Figured out that the HOUSE FUCKING PHONE hasn't been ringing for over a month because SOMEONE unplugged it.
Plugged in the fucking house phone, called my fucking cell phone, heard NO FUCKING RINGING when I HAD heard MUFFLED ringing earlier this evening.

AND realized it was in the fucking washing machine that was happily chugging away like the fuckhead workhorse it is.

Fuck you very much.
Fuck you phone.
Fuck you too big shorts that allowed my beloved phone to fall out of the pocket and into the towels I gathered and threw into the fucking ass machine after giving Butter his second shower of the day.

Fuck you.

Now I'm going to have to start my day at FUCKINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG Verizon tomorrow. NO! Today. TODAY.

Gah.

And forget telling me to be nice. I know I'm already up for a "new phone" -whatever that is. I hate it when cell phone places act as though they're doing you a favor; a favor for which YOU PAY THEM.

I'm sure there will blogger fodder after my time in the Oasis of Hell. I'll have to pack snacks, drinks, and a catheter for Butter. There is no way I'll leave my place in line to take him to go potty.

PS
Start emailing those damn numbers to me again. I'll have to REPROGRAM EVERYTHING once I get another overpriced piece of plastic. Bastards.

UPDATE:

I am such a fucking drama queen. Holy shit. I could put Shirley McClain's performance in Terms of Endearment to SHAME if I'd had a video of me at 2am this morning.

Ahem.

I slept almost none.
I didn't find the phone in the washer last night because once I realized that was the only place it could be, it was FILLED with nasty sludge soap water with all the dirty paraphernalia in there.
I got this morning, resigned to give that phone a proper burial. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled upon NOTHING when I put the load of towels in the dryer? No phone? Are you kidding me here?
I got onto the newly-working house phone (fuck you, again), called it, and THIS TIME HEARD A RING. How could that be?

I say again, HOW COULD THAT BE?

Don't you know it was on the front porch. On the GODDAMN FRONT PORCH.

Once again, Drama Queen here, signing off. Thanks for coming to the latest performance that is my life.