Dish Detergent

Andrew's sister, Adria, asked me to tell this story, so here goes. And no, it's not the story about the parrot and mayonnaise, so you can all get your hopes back down again. This one is much less embarrassing.

See, I'd just succeeded at a complete magical inversive transferal.

"What does that mean?" asked Morgan.

"It means he successfully reversed and externalized the primary property of a particular substance--probably a small quantity, I'm assuming," said my dad, who was drawing something on a napkin at the table. "What did you manage it with, Pete?"

"Dish detergent," I said, "and what's that look for, Dog?"

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Let's say that a bandwagon were to pull up in front of our house," he said.

"What actually is a bandwagon?" asked Morgan.

"And," continued The Dog, "that bandwagon had a sign on the side. And say that the sign said 'This is a bad idea, Pete,' in large, blue-and-red striped letters. And suppose that bandwagon was accepting new passengers. I would climb on that bandwagon."

"Come on, Dog. The theory is completely sound. Dish detergent works by binding to the dirt and carrying it away in the dishwater, right? So now, through a complete magical inversive transferal, I make the detergent repel the dirt, getting it off the dishes even more effectively. The dirt will be like rats on a sinking ship. They'll be running, screaming, saying, 'Oh no! Dish detergent! Aaaaaah!" I hate to admit it, but this is where I made little ratty, running-in-panic motions with my hands, and my 'aaaaaah' trailed off weakly.

"Nice," said Morgan. "I didn't even have to say anything that time. You made fun of yourself for me."

"Anyway," I said, "I'm starting the dishwasher now, and you'll see how awesome my complete magical inversive transferal is." I finished filling the little flap that opens up with dish detergent, closed the dishwasher, and pushed the button. I could hear the water filling inside, or whatever it does first, and I smiled. I was confident. I was certain. I was, of course, doomed.

The flap did its flappy-open-thing and my transferal kicked in. Something shattered inside the dishwasher. Lots of somethings. Then we all jumped back as the front of the dishwasher's door dented out with a metallic clang.

"I think that was the pot," said Morgan.

"Huh," said Dad, as he looked at the water leaking out of the dishwasher and pooling around my feet. "I guess it repelled more than just the dirt."