My wife wants to get a maid. I'm shocked, not because I am quite tidy, pick up after myself, and do the laundry, but because this one act is a sure death sentence. Honestly, when you think about it, in many celebrity deaths, who finds the body: the MAID! Heath Ledger, the maid found the body. The late, beautiful, Anna Nicole Smith, the maid found the body. This can't be mere coincidence; it happens far too much. These maids should be looked into; there's something going on.
And you can't tell me these maids don't snoop around in your stuff. My guess is they have huge parties on the weekends where they each bring a pair of stolen underpants from their client's homes and twirl them around in the air while they're dancing. The evening likely culminates with considerable hooting and hollering surrounding a barely-controlled underpants auction. It's probably a big laugh to them.
No, there will be no maid around my house to kill me and then, surprise, find the body, and then sell my underwear to the highest bidder. I remain tidy as both a courtesy and an act of life preservation.
One more thing: in case we get a maid and she finds my lifeless body slumped over my Connie Stevens scrapbook, this will be valuable evidence, and more important, a legacy of "I told you so."
