هزار و یک شب

This is an update this is an update this is an update that concerns.

Feces.

Well, not really. But it plays an integral, if unimportant role.

You know me. I'm decidedly wussy - certainly not one considered to be masculine.
In short, I don't laugh at most fart jokes.

This is not a fart joke.

It is, however, a story of how poop influenced my life at approximately 11:00 pm tonight.
We'll start there.
Let's get it out of the way, something embarrassing, something far too unpleasantly human and organic for my general tastes.

I pooped. Deal with it.

I tried to.

Deal with it, that is, not poop.
The poop (here, as a verb) was altogether successful in that it was executed to completion.
You may release your breaths held in by anxiety, oh Best Beloved. There is no part of the story where the poop exists in a non-designated poop area or state of being. The poop remained in the toilet the entire time.

This, in fact, is the root of the problem.

Know that I am most effortfully so attempting to recount this tale in as tactful and well-spun manner as I can.

Know, O Jewel of the West, that this is patently impossible.

I have never flooded a bathroom before.
It is, all things considered, a terrifying experience.

I understand now, a very tiny little bit, what it is like to have your religious beliefs crumble in an instant.

You pray, or wish, or whatever you want to call it, every time you flush. You might not do it consciously - in fact, it's almost entirely automatic - but it does happen and everyone does it whether or not they've had a prior "experience" or not.

You are saying to yourself, to the poop god, to all toilets familiar and foreign, you are making a silent prayer that you never have to see this particular poop again.
You are achieving closure. This is the end of this relationship, every party involved knows it, and the feelings are mutual.

Sometimes, and I'm sure everyone has experienced this at some point or another, the gods test you.

The flow.

Doesn't.

The water goes up. Slowly. Menacingly. God himself shows up, eyebrow raised, silently waiting to see how you react to this new situation.

Have you studied your bible? Do you know the secret handshake? Has some kind uncle pulled you aside by your ear by now, to teach you about the miracle of the U-bend and how to properly operate a plunger?

Are you, in short, prepared to deal with your shit a second time?

And if you are, if you rise to the challenge, god smiles upon you and the waters recede. For now. And you fall to your knees and weep, thanking him. Thanking him for sparing you.

Tonight I was forsaken. I pray no more.

My god got angry, and He set upon me His most permanent and powerful of judgements.

The Flood.

You may, My Exquisite Desert Rose, release your baited breath once more.
It was only water. I survived to tell this tale to you, and in truth the real meat of the story lies in the buildup and the aftermath.

Let us avoid the unpleasant details. Suffice it to say that, like the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River (all set about with fever-trees) itself, my bathroom experienced monsoon season.

I am not a handy man. This is widely accepted as fact.
However, thanks once again to that benevolent uncle of mine, I have had the experience of replacing a toilet structure by myself. I feel fairly confident in my ability to, at the very least, prevent total armageddon.

That is now a past tense. I felt.

I mean, and here I must revert to base language, toilets shouldn't fucking do that.
I mean, they've got a catch mechanism that stops it when it's full, and a drain-off on the front in case of emergencies, you can go look at your bathroom sink, I bet it's got one too. Its a HOLE. Water goes IN IT. What the FUCK.


So. Flash forward to me standing in the bathtub, plunger and trashcan and rug and box and book all huddled at my feet like so many refugees, water literally waterfalling out of my ruined toilet.

Flash forward to me frantically leaning over and fiddling with chains, and bobs, and levery bits.
By now, any squeamish aversion to "toilet water" has been replaced by survival instinct.
This is my goddamn bathroom. More importantly, this is also my roommate Travis's bathroom.

I have flooded a shared bathroom.

I cannot call anyone in to help me. I would sooner ask a stranger to help me pick my nose, or de-lint my bellybutton, or any other such personal invasion.

Eventually, after a few deep breaths, I stem the initial flow of water. The toilet immediately returns to its resting state, becoming the only normal thing left in this new aquatic environment. Smug fucker.

I'm left with about a half inch of water spread out over 25 square feet of tile, and -horror upon horrors- wet socks.

There are junk towels under the kitchen sink.

They are the equivalent of...

They have no equivalent. They fit no metaphor. They are useless towels, they are sopping wet and there is still water on the floor.

It is time to man up.

"Hey......Travis.....we got a bucket?"

"Why."

"Water." That word is code. That word explains everything. No further explanation is needed.

"......We have some towels under the kitchen sink."

"You know, I thought you'd say that."

He walks over, takes one look at the room, and gets his keys.

There is still half an hour before he has to be halfway across town for drunk-as-a-skunk birthday celebrations.

We are going to buy a mop.

AC/DC yells at us the entire drive to the Pharmacy.

I buy a mop. Travis buys some candy. I buy some candy. Travis points out more candy. I buy more candy.

The entire event loses its magic, its allure, its meaning.
Not that I feel chastised, or particularly ashamed.
It was just a thing that got Dealt With.

But it makes for a shitty conclusion to a story of a bathroom visitation from the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River,all set about with fever-trees:

And so I mopped my bathroom with my new mop.

It's cleaner than it's ever been.

And so I wrung out four towels on my stoop, and bunged them in the washing machine to be dealt with in the morning.

And so I consoled myself with a two pound bag of swedish fish and an hour spent glorifying my own memories.

And so I recline, idle, spent, barely able to cram fistfuls of sweets into my languid face, spinning terrible yarns out of an otherwise dreary and unpleasant experience.

And so, Heart of my Heart, my Shining Radiant Moon, my Inspiration for the Fire of my Words, this tale draws to a close.

Maybe I'll kill you tomorrow night instead.



Edit: Oh you know how this goes by now.
It goes Thom Yorke, who has been fiddling about with his acoustic guitar for about long enough now, thanks, get back to work.

and then it goes Jay-Z doing something way outside his traditional style. Ignore the last minute of the song, it's the end track shoutout rideout for the Black Album.