A call to action from the knee pads you haven’t washed in eight months:
We knee pads are a humble folk. We protect you from shattered knee caps, allow your sweat to soak into our fibers, and we seldom complain. But 8 months without any sign or indication of a wash cycle is just too much for us to continue to stay quiet about. Where is the humanity?? Have you no sympathy, you devil?!
We stayed quiet when you decided it would be a good idea to practice double knee falls on asphalt last summer. We even held our tongue when you tried jamming against the A team and spent a minute thirty of the two minute jam being thrown to your knees. But this smelly nightmare is simply too much for a simple pair of knee pads to endure. We are living in the horrifying stench of our own filth. Like animals! ANIMALS!
We don’t mean disrespect, but your sweat smells like someone vomited an Indian lunch buffet into a dirty fish tank. Frankly, it’s offensive. It’s like if dirty tampons could fart. We can compare our sad existence in your rank gear bag only to Dante’s eighth circle of Hell, and before you ask—187 Pads doesn’t even let a knee pad leave the factory without exposing it to a copy of Dante’s Inferno. So yeah, we know about the circles of Hell.
Why can’t you just buy some of that pine-smelling stuff that your teammates spray on their gear? Even that would be a fresh breath of salvation to our dismal, smelly existence. And don’t tell us you can’t afford it! It’s eight dollars! You bought a pizza for twice that amount yesterday because you demanded extra cheese! You know it would be worth it, you cheap wench!
The horror of these past 8 months can compare only to what we now call The Great Darkness of 2014, in which you forgot us in the trunk of your car for the entirety of the three week off season. We didn’t even get aired out after practice, you monster! After two days, Mouth Guard said it was sure you would remember us and at least unzip your bag. But we knew you had abandoned us. We’ve blacked out most of that period, but when we try to recall it, all we remember is a sour milk smell and the sound of a thousand angels crying.
We are not demanding much. Knee pads are a proud people—we give our dignity to the great beast that is roller derby and we do not question her power. But dear god, woman, just put us in the wash! Release us from this putrid abyss! Until then, the sweet, sweet bliss of that gentle wash cycle will haunt our dreams as we burrow deeper and deeper into the nightmarish swamp toilet that is your gear bag.
I am Goddamn Goddamn, a Bank skater, writer, TV enthusiast, and the weird person asking to pet your dog.