It was a normal Tuesday (well, as normal as Mr. Smudg’s life ever gets). He cracked open a bag of linens, ready for the usual suspects: mystery stains, socks that didn’t match, maybe a rogue french fry.
But not this time.
The moment the bag split—POOF.
Mysterious Fog
A dense white cloud billowed out, swallowing the laundry room like a bad magic trick.
Mr. Smudg exhaled, coughed and then nearly belted. He waved his arms. He squinted into the haze. Was this a linen exorcism? Had a ghost toddler decided it was time to make its presence known?
Nope. Baby powder – or so he hoped. Enough baby powder to fumigate a hockey arena.
For three full minutes, Mr. Smudg couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled through the fog like a Victorian chimney sweep, muttering curses and reconsidering all his career choices. Somewhere in the distance, the spin cycle beeped, muffled and eerie, like it too was trying to escape, too.
By the time the cloud cleared, every surface was coated. The laundry carts looked frosted. The towels sparkled like they’d been dusted by Tinkerbell’s clumsy cousin. And Smudg himself? He looked like he’d escaped from an 18th century drama.
The culprit? A very large, value sized, broken bottle of baby powder that had detonated in the load of linens. Because apparently, nothing says “hotel stay” like turning your laundry attendant into a powdered donut.
This week’s lesson?
Baby powder is not fabric softener.
Fog machines are for concerts, not housekeeping.
And if you ever hear Mr. Smudg sneeze, run. It’s still snowing baby powder in there.
Until next time,
Mr. Smudg
Still here. Still grumpy. Still trying to file for “lung glitter” under worker’s comp.
#MrSmudg #LaundryChronicles #HospitalityHumor #LinenLogic #TheMysterious