Not, of course, when they're actually holding dirty laundry--then I feel like they're serving some kind of useful purpose--but when they've been refilled with a bunch of neatly folded, clean laundry. Then they are the devil. Because at that point, all they do is whisper sweet seduction in my ear:
"You don't have to put these clothes away."
"I can be your pretend extra dresser. You know that would be so much more fun. And so much less effort."
"Your husband uses the recliner as an extra closet. You deserve to be in this relationship with me."
"Putting away clothes is only for boring perfectionists. Embrace your creative, artistic self and keep your clothes on display, off-set by the clean plastic lines that define my style."
My laundry basket is crazy, man.
And that's why, when I am in my right mind, I fold the laundry and leave it in stacks on our bed. Because at some point I'll realize that I either have to put the laundry away or sleep on the couch. And I just don't like bunking with the dog.