I’m all about ’em.
I like starched shirts. There are two things I believe are the little things that make life worth living – starched shirts and drinking straws. I like starched shirts more, because I could slurp from a cup or glass, but I couldn’t go on without starched shirts. If I lost everything and lived under an overpass, I’d crawl from my cardboard box home – wearing a heavy starched shirt. I’d beg for money during the day, then walk to the cleaners. I’d walk in – the employees would be startled because of my un-washed appearance – as I presented them with my pile of button down dress shirts. They’d ask, “Do you want starch?” I’d respond, “Of course – make it heavy, ya know I live under that overpass down there, and I don’t want to look wrinkled sleeping on the pavement.” I’d then pay with the change I collected from generous people. It’s just occured to me – I need a sign that says “Help me starch my shirts.” I wouldn’t have it say “Will work for starched shirts”, because I would have no intention of working, it’s why I’m under the overpass in the first place.