There is nothing that strikes fear in a lady’s heart like living alone.
Because there’s no man to blame a clogged toilet on.
Last week I mentioned I had a slight problem with my toilet. I mentioned it all casual like, as if it wasn’t a big deal.
And it wasn’t. Until it was. Which is often the case with toilets. They seem a little iffy. Kind of temperamental. And then one day, your toilet lets you know EXACTLY how angry it is at you. It burps feces at you. And before you know it you’re running, RUNNING from feces chasing you across the bathroom floor.
Screaming at the horror of it all is clearly pointless, but scream you do. In slow motion, while diving for anything that will stop the horror. Rolls of toilet paper, shower curtains, a cat. You scream and slip and bark and for some reason start maniacally spraying Poo-Pourri on everything.
They say before you die your life flashes before your eyes. I can tell you that doesn’t happen when your toilet overflows. Insead, what flashes before your eyes is every possible person that could conceivably appear at your door at the very moment you’re trying to corral poop with a makeup bag. Your neighbour, your mother, a friend, the grocery store clerk who once mentioned 3 years ago she’d like to see your house, Steve Buscemi, the Pope, Robin Leach. ANYONE COULD WALK THROUGH THAT DOOR.
Why didn’t you have rubber gloves in the bathroom? Or boots??? Or holy water?? This never would have happened if you didn’t have an irrational fear of using public restrooms. You make a promise to go into therapy and conquer that fear at which point you will ONLY use public restrooms leaving your own bathroom as a sanctuary for wayward and constipated youth.
Don’t think it could get any more fun than that? Watch this.
And that my friends is what’s known as a shit show.