We love em, don’t we?
They arrange and display our wardrobe. Keep things orderly.
But they harbor…a dark side.
Hangers…are actually here to kill us.
Oh, I know, it’s hard to believe, but, yes, hangers—no one wants to admit it, no one wants to talk about it—but, secretly, privately, when we’re lying alone in bed at night…a hollow, gale wind blowing outside, and there’s that scratching just outside your window?
It’s a hanger.
Yes, hangers truly scare us.
They start out as one, oh, but they’re worse than any pair of rabbits, and in no time they’ve multiplied. Then, they hang around all neat and pretty as-you-please, staring back at you like “What? Who?” when you eye them in your closet, and, oh, just let one of the little buggers’ hooks to tangle with another, and all hell’s broken loose.
Hangers.
Are the Devil’s playthings.
It’s never just one hanger another gets all caught up in. No, one sees it, and they all jump in (“monkey see monkey do”?…how about “hanger see hanger do!”). You think you have it figured out, and lo and behold, they’re 14 more who suddenly join the fray, and you’re crying “What the fu—?”
They do it deliberately. It’s calculated. You think once you’ve hung your clothes, closed the closet door, that that’s that. Far from the bitter truth. Behind those doors, they have all the time in the world. Where are they going? What else are they going to do? They have all the time in the world, my friends. To plot. Scheme.
Play with us.
It’s their way.
Hangers.
Armageddon’s bell ringers.
Reach in for one—your hand comes out with 52 1/2 (the half being one of those stupidly annoying mini-bastards that have no reason for being, except to piss you off—and who really uses these goddamned things anyway?).
Hangers.
What’s not right with America. The world, for that matter.
And why do there have to be so many frigging designs? What’s wrong with the one tried-and-true architect? The wire hanger.
But, no, they have to get all “creative” and all, orchestrate mutant variations:
Mini-hangers.
Felt hangers.
Weird-assed thick plastic hangers whose fricking hooks barely (and many times don’t) fit any standard-sized closet bar.
Padded hangers.
Paper hangers.
Caped hangers.
Plastic hangers.
Wooden hangers.
Clamp hangers.
Belt hangers.
Foldable hangers.
Multi-line hangers.
Hangers with cardboard tubes.
Networked frigging clothes hangers?!
Ahhh–I go mad with the seemingly endless varieties!
Hangers…with a license to kill.
And don’t even get me started about clipping clothespins to them.
The history of the hanger might sound all benign and cozy, but it’s all part of the conspiracy.
It’s all part of their evil plan.
They’re insidious, they’re everywhere, and mark my words, people of Earth, they are taking over the world.
One closet at a time.
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