There are stains.
There are spills.
And then there are full-blown vino crimes against laundry.
It started like any other Thursday. Mr. Smudg was knee-deep in towels with that familiar look of existential dread when he reached into a linen bag… and heard the unmistakable crunch of broken glass.
Now, Mr. Smudg has handled some things in his day—mysterious brown streaks, forgotten underwear, a vibrating something—but nothing sends shivers down his stuffed spine like the glittering glint of shattered glass and fermented regret.
There, buried in a mess of damp towels and passive-aggressive hotel robes, lay the remains of a once-proud broken wine bottle.
A puddle of deep red soaking into a king-size sheet like a gothic horror novel
Sharp shards clinging to the fabric, glistening in the light
And the unmistakable scent of “we got a little too comfortable last night”
Mr. Smudg paused.
Not because he was afraid.
But because he needed a moment to process the audacity.
“Who puts a broken bottle in the laundry hamper?”
“Was this a toast gone terribly wrong?”
“Did the towel offend you?”
He spent the next hour plucking glass out of thread counts and whispering prayers to the linen gods. One wrong fold and that spa towel becomes a surprise weapon.
This week’s lesson?
Don’t sleep with the wine bottles.
If your Pinot turns into a pile of shards and shame, call housekeeping.
And please stop turning the laundry into your personal crime scenes.
Until next week,
Mr. Smudg
Still here. Still grumpy. Still nursing a glass of emotional support rosé (plastic, of course).
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