I came home from work a few nights ago, at 2:30 in the morning, and went upstairs to remove my contacts. After the chore was done, and I rubbed my eyes for a full minute (the greatest feeling!), I lifted the toilet lid to take a leak. And I gasped with horror: nothing but shit stew, all the way to the rim.
I’ve asked this question before, and I’m going to ask it again. What’s the story with teenagers and their titanic dumps? I don’t go around clogging up pipes, and Toney doesn’t even use the upstairs bathroom, so it was definitely one of those two mega-shitters. And it’s just not right, to deposit something the size of a Christmas ham into a toilet bowl.
So, I found myself plunging — once again. This time, in the middle of the night. And at one point I had the horrifying water so agitated, I felt some of it splash on my leg. Dammit! I’d just worked twelve hours, and now this?? Finally, after about five minutes of pushing and pulling on the turd-buster, something broke loose and everything disappeared.
I sincerely don’t understand. Both our boys are as skinny as Black Crowes. If somebody in this house were to be pegged as a toilet clogger, it would clearly be me. But it’s those two. I think it has something to do with their age, but can’t really figure it out. Help me understand, my friends. What the heck is going on?!
A few weeks ago I received a jury summons in the mail, and was excited. I prayed that I’d be chosen for a long, drawn-out murder trial that would take months to complete. Or, at the very least, be gifted with a day of sitting around the courthouse in Scranton, reading a Dean Koontz novel. I get paid by my company if I’m out on jury duty, and a little vacation from that pressure cooker would be just what the doctor ordered.
Unfortunately, however, I called the number on the day instructed, and was dismissed. Before it even started, I was sent packing. “You have fulfilled your obligation,” the recording told me. Wotta ripoff!
I rarely get called for jury duty, and have never made it to the point where somebody actually asked me questions. The only time I had to physically show up, I just sat around for eight hours, and some judge came in and told us all to go home. Nobody said a word to any of us, they just made us sit there for a long time, and dismissed us.
So, I had high hopes that this one would lead to something fruitful. But, no. I fulfilled my civic duty simply by punching ten numbers into a telephone. I’m deeply disappointed.
Over the weekend a couple of high traffic websites linked to my Sam’s Club update, from Friday. And everybody hated it. In fact, it requires all caps: they HATED it. In the comments section I was savaged, brutally. Which is fine. I don’t care anymore. I used to care, but fuck ’em.
The thing that does bug me a bit, however, is that so many people who don’t read the site fail to understand that I’m being silly a lot of the time. And that’s on me, I guess. There were people arguing about my Dyson Airblade diatribe, discussing the accuracy of what I wrote. I was just going off, talking about poop spores, etc. And they were fact-checking me. Holy shit, people. Take that paint stirrer outcha ass!
And here’s the best part: somebody called me a “rich white liberal” who doesn’t have any idea how good I have it. You know, compared to people in African nations… I nearly did a spit-take. Wow. It was a humor article. You guys know what I’m doing, but the readers of those other sites were taking everything literally, and far too seriously. And they hated my guts. Yes, it was a lot of fun.
Heh, rich white liberal.
On Saturday the kickball-shitters and I removed all five(!) of our window air conditioners, and moved them to the basement. It sucked so bad I nearly cried. (See, right there… silliness. And those other site dipshits would think I LITERALLY almost cried, and would comment at length about it. See what I mean?) But we’re all ready for winter, and the Soviet humboxes are safely stored away for the season.
And when we were returning the screens to the windows, I noticed some stickers the previous owners put on them. Jen’s room… Daniel’s room… It was another family who lived here for many years, which is kinda weird. It’s our house, but it wasn’t always. Other people slept here, and laughed here, and called this place home. It rarely occurs to me that our house has a history that predates us.
Wonder what happened to Jen and Daniel? Maybe someday I’ll try to track them down, and invite them over for a beer. Of course that’ll never happen, but it’s fun to think about. Have you ever returned to a house or apartment you lived in many years ago? I haven’t, but would love to. If you have any experience with such a thing, please tell us about it in the comments.
And I’m going to eat a gigantic salad now, and leave for work. Have a great day, my friends.
See you tomorrow!