Last night, I was getting ready for bed when peals of laughter erupted from the closet where Mike was sorting out the dry cleaning that he had picked up. I peered inside to see what the hilarity was regarding his freshly pressed shirts, only to see this:
One of Piglet's burp rags, hanging neatly on a hanger. No creases. Light starch. A burp rag, laundered and pressed as only the finest, fanciest burp rag can be. This was fantastically funny, until I soberly checked the bill:
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