As much as I hate to admit it, I am not a clean person. Or, rather, I am fairly clean, but not as clean as my wife would want me to be. I can tolerate a bit of mess, such as our shoes lined up slightly non-symmetrically, whereas she wants our treatment of shoes to mirror what this dude's got going on.
Not wanting to catch tongue-ringworm, I am satisfied being slightly more messy than she would like. But to be honest, I used to be a lot more organized.
Take, for example, my method of pants storage while in college. It was an amazingly devised system of complicated temporary pants placement that incorporated strategically located venues of pants removal - all of which were outside the bedroom and within ten feet of the door to the outside. It was through this procedure that I could find the exact pair of pants that I needed, pick them out of their respective pile from the floor, and I was on my way. It was like a highly pants-specific version of that "take a penny, leave a penny" policy.
My wife couldn't understand it and over-simplified it. She just said (and still says to this day) that I would simply drop my pants upon entering the apartment, leaving a path of filth in my wake.
Psh, women. They know nothing of complicated, scientifically-derived procedures.
Anyway, she's now reached the pinnacle of the apex of the most ridiculous possible request: vacuuming under the bed. In case she's not aware, people can't SEE under the bed. And in my book, the dedication is to the inventor of the motto "out of sight, it's effing clean!" I don't need to see under there to know that there's nothing of any interest below my sleeping bum. Sparkling and clean down there, I tell you.
Next thing you know, she'll be asking me to do something insane like, cleaning out the refrigerator, or something. Which is dumb, because EVERYONE knows that bacteria can't grow in the cold, so no reason to ever clean a fridge.
