“Awe, crap . . . !”
Those were the final FCC approved two words which fell from my mouth in his parent’s first floor powder room (which remains a gallery for the family’s monogrammed and sun-bleached bathroom set) a nano-second after I recognized a rising water level in the bowl. Debris would leisurely bob and dunk as an improbable fresh water toilet tank tsunami added gallon upon gallon upon gallon of fresh water that was uplifting the residual debris which were bushwhacked by the unexpected gridlock, and now cascades down the cold, white porcelain moving across the floor like urban crawl, defiling everything in its path.
At which time I foolhardy reached for the precious, handed down through generations, hand woven and monogrammed bathroom set
(upon which not a single drop of moisture touched it’s surface) but has hastily been inducted into the Le Grand Corps de Craps, an esteemed pile of rags: been somethings, used to be used for, or, it had wiped his bouncy little bottom well past ten. Now retired and living out their days as “first responders” should absorption or heat require instantaneous dispatch, each of them, whether flannel, Egyptian Cotton, or terry cloth are proud to arrive at the incident first and they all know that this or the next alarm might be their last. But every single member of the Le Grand Corps de Craps hopes and prays that their final call isn’t a clogged toilet. After all, who wants their coup de grace to be wiping up someone else’s crap.
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