Pointless soul destroying ongoing fights with inanimate objects

[HoneyDragon]

The compost bin provided by the council. The bastard. I spent a painful 5 minutes trying to wrestle that fucker shut today before I realised the handle had slipped under the hinge. I won in the end but the fuckers still looking smug in the utility room.

And EVERYTHING in my understairs cupboard works on a rota to pick a fight with me. Sometimes the vacuum and ironing board work together to get me.

What intimate object regularly picks fights with you?

Have you ever finally emerged victorious?

To all the Henry haters, I may have a solution for you!
I just drove back from town and saw a man taking his Henry for a walk outside, so perhaps all they need is a little fresh air and exercise

Thecunk the tablets!!! Mine all do that as well! Sometimes they double bluff you as well by making you think you've worked it out. Bastards

Socks: Where do they go? I've hunted high and low for the missing partner in laundry crime. Never manage to find them.

Hoover: PA pipe clogging and because its a cheap version of a dyson, sometimes the stuff doesnt even get stucked into the right part.

Dishwasher: Always doing such a half arsed job. Quicker to bloody hand wash.

Boiler: Yes, I'd like more than 3 inches of hot water for my bath please. Temperamental cock.

Anything that belongs to DD: I swear is trying to kill me, I'm sure they run under my bare feet so I step on them. Fuckers!!

The boiler, which in this house has precisely two settings:

1. Occupants of house showering. Temperature of water to alternate between 3 and 12 degrees, decreasing to zero Celsius after thorough application of shampoo. Up to 15 degrees as you reach to turn it off.

1. Occupants of house doing dishes. Temperature of water to start off moderately warm, then cold, then reaches boiling point as you immerse your hand a selection of cutlery.

It reserves a third, magical, setting for attendance by plumbers and all employees of British Gas - nothing to see here mate, all under control.

And repeat.

Shopping bags. You get them all set up at the end of the checkout, ready to receive their bounty. You've got this planned, every thing on the conveyor belt is in THE RIGHT ORDER.

Bottles first, they topple over. Then a chicken catches the edge of the bag and the thing crumples like a tissue. Meanwhile, the scanning backlog has started. Now bags are dominio-ing all over the place. You've lost. They've won.

You're a broken woman.

Long ago, we had the Crappest Car in the World. It would have failed its MOT in the UK, and I loathed and detested it. Lock it, and you would end up engaged in unarmed combat with a fucking Toyota when you tried to get back in again: you had to kick the door like a Ninja in just the right place. Put your favourite tape into the tape deck, and lo, you would have lots of pretty magnetic ribbon everywhere. Lift up the hatchback boot and forget to prop it with the ice scraper, and as you reached in for the shopping, it would slam back down and clout you right on the back of your head with a specially designed head-clouting lock. The gearbox was like a sack of really rusty marbles and on cold mornings (of which there were many) I sometimes drove DH all the way to work with only reverse and third and, after 500yds, first available to me.

Before we came back to the UK, we offered it to a skint friend for free and the ungrateful bastard declined it. We ended up selling it for its value as scrap metal.

In other news...
I used to assume that it was just MIL's Henry that had ishoos, like all the rest of her household appliances (she used to have a kettle that had to be propped at a special angle with a teaspoon before it would switch on).

Our Dyson ended up evicted because I hate the fucker. I was forever emptying it, the hose split, and then the handle split so every time I picked it up it pinched my hand. DH loved it. He hates the Sebo and accuses it of not hoovering the stairs properly and spitting crap out. But I love the Sebo (as much as I can ever love a hoover) and the Sebo loves me.

I just drove back from town and saw a man taking his Henry for a walk outside, so perhaps all they need is a little fresh air and exercise
At the risk of upsetting you, do you realise that he was taking the unsuspecting Henry to the dump?
Poor Henry. I bet they told him that he was going to live on a farm with all the other naughty Henrys

I have a theory as to where the socks go. They hide in the washing machine then add themselves to woolen tights, making them 6ft long when wet and transforming them into a cats cradle which wraps itself around all the other washing through arms and up trouser legs, knotting it all together. The spare bits transfer onto other clothes to form attractive little bobbles.

Our washing machine chewed two holes in the bath mat yesterday. It has never misbehaved at all, before - I am worried it is about to turn delinquent.

I frcking hate our washer dryer.

Dh has spent the morning putting a new control panel on it and now it refuses to acknowledge that the door is closed even though it clicks.

It's been a long running battle of wills. I think its winning. It's actually harder work than my teenage daughter at the moment.

At the risk of upsetting you, do you realise that he was taking the unsuspecting Henry to the dump?
Poor Henry. I bet they told him that he was going to live on a farm with all the other naughty Henrys

Dh came in from the garage today to inspect progress on my table and have a fag, and quite reasonably queried why everything was covered in dust.

He'd forgotton that the sander is a temperamental cunt.

In an update, the washing machine is now refusing to open the door. It's spat a wire at dh which has been replaced. It's claiming that the ten minute drain cycle takes 2 hours 20. Dh is fuming in the living room and I have taken to bed to escape.

I can hear it snugly churning away in the kitchen.

Fucker.

My folding drier is a bastard. Either it won't stay up, collapsing without warning and crushing all the clothes and fingers nearby. On other days it won't go down no matter how hard I try, undo the clip on one side - the other one holds on tighter and repeat infinitum.

I am sick and tired of constantly remaking my bed! Sheets go on, all well and dandy but they for some reason won't STAY there and are forever falling off.

And my duvet which likes to bunch up inside the cover, leading to cold legs and swearing when you can't get properly warm at 11pm on a freezing November night.

Fitted fucking sheets. In particular the deep fitted fucking sheets which are less deep than the standard fitted fucking sheets. So if you dare to take a deeper breath than usual during the night the fuckers ping off the corners and wrap around your head, suffocating you in the process. Fuckers.

The automatic switchboard at work that refuses to put you through to Speech Therapy unless you pronounce it as 'speesh ferapy'. Piss taking git

The fucking paper shredder!

I don't cram loads of pieces in at once any more but surely it should be able to cope with feeding in two or three sheets at once or individually but within quick succession of each other. By the time I've taken off the shreddy lid bit and dug about with a knife for 20 minutes trying to unblock the one tiny speck of paper hat stops it working I might as well have chewed the paper up myself. I don't know why I bother shredding at all. I do actually it's to provide bedding for the hamster avoid identity theft. The first thing the identity thief can steal is my fucking shredder.

Cake tins and baking trays. I am pretty sure I sort you out every time I put you away and keep you in a nice logical order. Plus, I only bake cakes every few weeks or so.

So why, why, why, every time I need a tin container of any description, have you reorganised yourself so that it is impossible even to take the top item off without the whole house of tin cards collapsing around my feet, deafening anyone in a 5-mile radius?

I suspect the loaf tin of foul play, it always seems to be in the thick of it, high-sided little non-stick fucker.

Oh and peppercorns can fuck off too.

Cling film. And the bastard printer that works for every other fucker apart from me

I won the fight against my old Dyson. That wanker spewed shit everywhere and didn't pick anything up no matter how much my mother insisted they were "the best Hoovers in the world". Well I had the last laugh.. I threw it outside and bought a miele pull along instead who LOVES me. My mother wanted me to fix the Dyson so I could have it as a spare.. Why would I want that smug, abusive bastard back??

Yes, to the fucking tablets. Only in my case I find the only time the information leaflet isn't blocking the tablets is when I open the box wanting to read the leaflet. So the tablets are blocking the fucking leaflet. How does it know?

I have a special pad that connects to the baby monitor. It vibrates violently when it detects noise over a certain amount. Supposed to help me as I am deaf and cannot hear my children cry when in own room.

Useful it may be but my god does it need a thrashing sometimes. Baby cries buzzzzzz stops.

Ok maybe he was just dreaming. Roll over,go back to sleep buzz buzz buzz Turn monitor off to get up BUZZZZZZZZZ

WTF!! How are you still going!!!I turned you off! Fuck off you are making me dizzy!

I swear the fucker laughs.

I'm so glad I'm not the only victim of tablet issues. Fuckers.

I thought I was sorted with cling film, the manufacturer over here put a click cut thing in the flap - so you pull it out, click down the flap and it cuts it perfectly, bloody awesome. Except that DH went to Costco and bought the biggest bastard roll you have ever seen. So big that the box is long gone, it's just a roll of greasy plastic rolling around the bottom of the pantry collecting rice and fluff and over here they call it 'Glad Wrap', I'm never bastard glad when I've finished mauling the fucker

Just have to say, electric coffee making machines (plural).

I have no words.