A WMD, (a male-proof dishwasher)

"Okay, 
so this is just a dishwasher, 
right? 
I've got this."

I mutter to myself, 
eyeing the contraption with distrust.

Mum's eyebrow is doing that thing, 
and sis... 
she's trying not to bust.

"Right, 
plate goes here, 
mug there, 
and... 
um, where's the soap slot?"
I'm talking to myself, 
'cause surely, 
that's gonna help a lot.

Mum's snicker slips out, 
sis's shoulders are shaking like jelly.

"Quiet, you two," 
I grumble, 
"I'm on to this, 
really."

"Is this thing even on? 
What's with all these buttons and lights?"
I press one, 
nothing. 
Press another, 
and—oops, 
that's not right.

Mum's laughter's a river now, 
and sis, 
she's just lost it, 
full throttle.

"Hey, no fair!" 
I protest, 

"Okay, 
focus. 
Plates stacked, 
cutlery sorted... 
now, just to start."

I slam the door shut, 
hit the biggest button, 
feeling smart.

But the suds, 
oh the suds, 
they're everywhere, 
it's a foam party surprise.

Mum and sis are howling, 
and I'm just like, 
"Guys, guys..."

"Alright, 
alright, 
so I missed a step, 
or maybe two or three."
I'm knee-deep in bubbles, 
this isn't how it's supposed to be.

Mum's wiping tears of mirth, 
and sis, 
well, 
she's no help.

"Next time," 
I say, 
"I'm YouTubing this, 
'cause this was a yelp."