We last left off with the fact that my exciting new tool of the toilet trade had some unforeseen maintenance issues.
You can rest assured that, going forward, everytime I used that baby, I whacked it against the toilet bowl to ensure the elimination of hidden passengers. In fact, you wouldn’t be out of line to state I “whacked the shit out of it.”
And therein lies the final problem in this sad trilogy of scatological terror…the fact that, even though I had a phenomenal tool to clear the clogs…I still needed to clear the damn clogs!
And I want to impress upon you, this wasn’t a monthly occurrence. Not weekly. This was damn near a daily chore for me. And for those of you not in my position, let me just assure you now that staring at a bowl full of nasty and pumping while trying not to get wet? Yeah, that shit gets old real quick, even with a labour-saving weapon like the Hammer.
So, there finally came a day when the Wife and I decided we were done. Damn tiny little S-shaped drains that could not take my son’s filth away! I would scour the ends of the Earth–Indiana Jones style if that’s what it took–to find something that would cut back the daily pumping of crap out of my life.
We talked to a friend of ours that had experience in home renovations, and he recommended a place in Whitby, so we headed off on our quest.
We entered a showroom that glittered and shone with all that is porcelain and plastic and contains water. Sinks and showers and tubs. Tubs with jets. Tubs with doors. Hot tubs.
But I remained faithful to the quest. Mine were eyes that never strayed from the goal of flushing glory. I glided straight by shower stalls that promised uncompromised cleaning of the kind I could only dream about. I slid past sinks that would tease dirt from my fingers with delightful, chromed ecstasy. I ignored their shameless whispers and headed straight for the thrones in this Kingdom of Plumbing.
And the selection! The mind boggles.
Still, it didn’t take long to fall in love with a one-piece number with a lid that closed slowly, making the barest whisper of a tunk when it finally settled. When one of the salespersons approached, he said the Toto was one of the better toilets in the store. After cracking a couple of jokes about a toilet named after Dorothy’s dog in the Wizard of Oz, I finally got to the question that had been plaguing me for months.
“Okay, it’s nice,” I said. “And I like the slow closing lid and the low volume flush, but I need something that basically…” And this is where words failed me. In desperation, I held my arms out in a circle in front of me. “I need something with a drain this big,” I said, nodding my head to the approximate two-foot opening I was demonstrating.
“Ah, well then, this is good for that too,” he said. The next words he spoke were like the sweetest music to my ears. I’ll never forget those exquisite words…”This sucker’ll flush a cat!”
I’m sure he said other things after that, but with that line, I’d stopped listening and was sold. Wrap it up, I’m ready to go.
And the time came to pass when the Toto was installed in our bathroom. When the Boy came home from school that day, we pointed out his new arch nemesis. He scoffed. Quite abrasively and with great abandon, I might add. And later that evening, I happened to witness him as he came out of his bedroom with a portable video game in his hand. He opened the door, faced the toilet directly, stared it square in the bowl and said, “Okay, let’s do this!”
And he did. And so did Toto. It took everything he had that night, swallowed it and asked for more.
Again, my breast swelled with the pride of ownership.
It took a while, and I swear my son increased his cheese intake simply to win, if not the war, at least the odd battle against the Toto. And finally, he succeeded.
Which leads me to the statement I made back in the first of these three posts. That is, that I knew categorically that the Boy’s “sphincter can expand enough to permit the easy and unimpeded ingress and egress of a very large cat.”
Well think about it. He’s successfully (and on more than one occasion) blocked the drainage of a device that could “flush a cat.”
People frequently ask me why I write horror. And here, living in my own home, I live with something spawned in part from my own genetic material. And he can not only stretch a certain area of his anatomy wide enough to allow the passage of the ugly little dog from Wizard of Oz, he can also store said canine within his bowels for an as yet undetermined duration of time before dropping into a toilet of the same name.
If that doesn’t give you some ideas for a horror novel, hell I don’t know what will. I live in fear of an animals loosed from the bowels of the Boy successfully climbing back up and out of the Toto and eating my face.
And in the background, the malevolent chuckles of fifteen year old boy content in the knowledge of a job well done.
Bowels of Hell, indeed.