Where do socks go in the Washing Machine?

The Usual Suspicions

An exaltation of Larks may have sung the praises of the Washing Machine as a Sock Divorce Attorney, a Dating Agency, a hideaway motel for Sock Affairs. Or has a blush of boys or a bevy of Beauties suggested your foot perfume resembles a mischief of rats, a surfeit of skunks, a knot of toads or a congress of baboons?

What do the Socks think?

Perhaps said Socks have absconded to the Garter Archipelago for sweeter smelling air, with a party of fish, a parcel of penguins and a mess of iguanas who care.

Are they sick of being walked all over, day after day, year after year? Do Socks tire of never knowing which foot to invest their best in and decide to put a sock in it?

So what then?

There is an armada of Red Herrings hidden within a Washing Machine’s bank of circuits. So where is the department of Lost and Found and to where, do those pesky socks vamoose?

I’m not really suppose to say but…

The answer has been top secret for years. Recently a Parliament of Owls, voted that the Secret Observance Collation Kaleidoscope, (SOCK) undergo restructuring. With permission from a ponder of philosophers, I am permitted to tell you this; if a pace of asses don’t run off with my words.

First, make sure no one else is listening, this is Intergalactic Classified Information (ICI). It’s a …are you sure, really sure nobody’s sneaking a peek at my digital squeak? Not a totter of giraffes, a souse of lions, a skulk of foxes or a sleuth of bears? We don’t want anyone to rumble a rafter of plump murmurings anywhere. Was that a whoop of gorillas I heard just then? Is it safe to share? Ok, your sure.

The Plan
A Disguising of tailors had a plan to muster an experiment in Teleportation, but first they sought the stamp of approval. A swarm of politicians conferred with a sequitur of logicians. But the tailors wearied of the shuffle of bureaucrats’ constant debating and the slew of homework waiting. So they secreted away a skein of silk with a zap of lasers to the torment of trainers, huddled by Hubble; a brilliant constellation, expectant of a glossy consignment. But a wake of Buzzards saw their fare and soon their embezzlement was squared. Thereby creating the sensation of sock vacations, and the cessation of hosiery unification.

How do I know such surreptitious things? As socks are the stars of the Washing Machine world, I burrow down from the AGN (Active Galactic Nucleus) beneath the tub to search the Bulge of Dark Matter. Sometimes I’m pulled adrift into the Supermassive murky cabinet. Others from my warren search the Interstellar Dust in the Detergent dispenser, Inlet Valve, Lint Filter, well you get the picture. But it’s always a mystery where things go between rinse and spin cycle. Perhaps Le Tour de France?

Warm (water) regards

Minuscule golden Wombat
Internal (Sock) Affairs

P.S Off to the Archipelago for a work assignment, At last a Business trip that’s outside of the box 😀

burrow, warren, funny, cool, amazing

Writing 101 Day 16
One word Gold

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