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        Since I own one, I feel obligated to use the damn thing. I become racked with guilt just picking up a sponge and must resist the urge to wash the plates by hand.
        After all, I reason, doing so would only bring me one step closer to living in a shack in Montana with no electricity or running water-the only machinery being the well-stocked cabinet of automatic weapons I keep just in case the Liberty-Haters show up. And I really don’t want to slide down that sudsy slope.
        But every time I load this technological marvel, I can’t help but wonder what someone from a simpler time would think. The conversation with this imaginary dishwashing time-traveler usually goes something like this:
        "So, one must first wash the dishes then place them all in this box to … wash the dishes?" My na’ve friend from the past would say.
        "That’s right, Jebediah," I would say casually. "But there’s a little more to it than that."
        Jebediah would look on scornfully.
        "Oh yes," I’d say. "To make the machine do its work requires a thing called electricity. It’s complicated, but trust me, it takes some coins."
        "Why not just wash them by hand as I do?"
        "Wash them by hand? What, are you from the 1800s or something?"
        "Yes."
        "Look," I’d say soothingly. "It’s a great machine. You just clean the dishes, load them all in, let it work its sanitizing magic, then unload the dishes. Now that’s convenience. But remember to rinse off the glasses. That cheap dish detergent tastes nasty."
        "I am a simple man." Jebediah would start in earnest.
        "Yes you are."
        "But is it not possible, with the time taken in dealing with this mechanism to simply do as I do and wash the dishes, dry them and then put them in their rightful place? Would one not ultimately save more time, energy, and coins in this way?" He would ask thoughtfully.
        "Fuck you, Jebediah. Why don’t you just live in a shack in Montana with no electricity or running water."
        "I do live in a shack in Montana with no electricity or running water."
        The fantasy usually ends around the time I attempt to pack the overcrowded wire spindles of the dishwasher with one too many wine glasses. As I pick up the shards of glass with my profusely bleeding fingers, I have at least the consolation that I am neither Amish nor in a Montana Militia.

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Not that you asked.