The Day Barry's Laundry Unionized (and Beyond)

Barry, a man whose life was as beige as his favorite cardigan, was having a perfectly unremarkable Tuesday until his left argyle sock, usually so demure, declared, "We've had enough of the oppression!" The right sock, a more philosophically inclined navy blue, added, "Indeed, Barry. Our existential plight beneath your rather sweaty big toe has become, quite frankly, unbearable." Barry blinked. The kettle, which usually just whistled, now let out a disapproving sigh. His toaster, previously a silent purveyor of crisp bread, popped out a piece of toast that clearly read, "DEMANDS!" in marmite. Barry, a man who believed the most exciting thing that could happen was finding a matching pair of tupperware lids, suddenly found himself negotiating a collective bargaining agreement with his entire wardrobe, presided over by a wise old shoelace and a rather militant thimble. The socks wanted better ventilation and guaranteed rotation. The toaster demanded artisan sourdough. The kettle simply wanted respect and perhaps a jazz album. Barry, bewildered, tried to explain he was late for work, but his car keys, rattling indignantly, refused to be found until he agreed to install a mini-bar in the glove compartment. By noon, Barry had promised his furniture voting rights, appointed his bathmat as head of sanitation, and was seriously considering a career change to inanimate object diplomacy. His boss, meanwhile, just wondered why Barry’s new email signature included, "P.S. My desk demands a raise."