January 4, 2010

• Putting a Beached Whale Back Into the Ocean

       I just got out of the bathroom.  It was freakin’ HUGE.  It was one of those ones that you look down at and you know you better flush before you wipe or else the whole place is likely to go down in a furious flood.  This thing was so big, one end of it was down in the little drain tunnel/hole thing while the other end was above the water, accounting for a whole half of the thing, resting on the sloped porcelain like a rotten beached whale.  (This, by the way, is what caused the terrifically ferocious smell not found in the common poop that stays completely under the water where the smell is stays covered.)  I knew from the size of this great leviathan that I should flush before I wiped, so I did just that.
       And it still clogged the toilet!  My turd alone, without the aid of toilet paper or other wiping cloth of any kind, clogged the toilet!  And to think I was in such an excited hurry to get to the bathroom!  I almost shat my pants running through the dining room to get there.  Thank God for two sphincter muscles, huh? 
       I clog the toilet, the beast is still there, I have yet to wipe, but I can’t, or else I’ll add more material for the toilet to flush and it might overflow, and I think the general consensus on such an occurrence would be an immediate “aw, hell naw!”  So what do I do?
       I use my BlackBerry (in my pocket, thank the Lord) to access Twitter, and I tweet about it for ten minutes.  It’s not usual to spend ten minutes writing 160 characters or less, but on a BlackBerry and a poorly designed mobile version of the site, yes, it is.  After the ten minutes passed, I felt fairly confident that the turd had softened enough to send it through the pipes where it already defied being sent once before. 
       I flush. 
       The water is unsure; it stays level and swirls very slowly.
       Then it decides: it goes down one ounce at a time, the beast keeping firm foot to the porcelain.
       And then a nudge!  A budge!  A slow descend and then a proud victory!
       Or so I thought.  My poop had flushed down the drain tunnel/hole thing in the toilet, but only down to the final tip.  It lingered there, bobbed there, taunted me there. 
       “You’ll never get rid of me, Chrisy boy,” it smeared, er, sneered.
       “That’s what you think!”  It was a battle cry that I shouted, standing on both feet and looking down into the bowl, pants around my ankles.  “Prepare to die!”  I raised my sword (I keep it under the sink) and struck the flusher handle thing with it. 
       With the cry of a banshee, my poop went down, down, down.  I laughed like a many-muscled gladiator or something.  I sheathed my sword (put it back in the cabinet under the sink). It was a glorious defeat.
       Then I Lysol’d the heck out of the place.

  • 11:28 pm
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