Socks always vanish in the dryer.
Blaming each other for it was more fun than finding them.
This Saturday, Martha stood over a mountain of unfolded laundry, holding up a single lonely sock.
“George! Where’s the other one?”
George peeked over his newspaper. “Probably ran off with my patience.”
Martha scowled. “I swear, you eat them in your sleep.”
George shot back, “And I swear, you shrink my shirts on purpose so I look like a sausage at church.”
Fed up, Martha tossed the sock at him. “You think the laundry fairy does all this?”
George shrugged. “If there was a laundry fairy, she’d be charging me rent.”
Just then, their dog trotted through the living room—sock dangling from his mouth.
Both froze.
George grinned. “Well, look at that. Even the dog thinks you’re bad at folding.”
Martha smirked. “No, he just knows you’ll never bend down to pick it up.”
And so, the laundry pile remained untouched—because in their house, sarcasm always got folded first.
