Despite the fact that this kid who looks like he's about 11 years old has opened a pipe in my utility room that clearly was not meant to be opened very often if at all (it is 4" in diameter, cast iron, and comes up from the floor only to turn into a wall) and unleashed a torrent of oily black muck that smells like the bottom of a sewer, I thank him.
"Thank you," I say.
"Your welcome, ma'am," he says. His name patch says Pete. Despite this endearing detail, it in no way inspires a sexual fantasy in me. He looks too young. And the image of a hairless chest along with a boyish cherubic face looking down on me and saying, "Jeepers, Mrs. Robinson, that was super duper," through heavy breaths more or less drop kicks my libido directly to zero.
Boyish or not, however, Pete has effectively fixed my backed up kitchen sink and for that, I am overflowing with good intention. "I'll call you next time, Pete," I say, walking him out.
"There is one more piece of advice I like to give people, ma'am." He sets down his huge metal toolbox and jams the balls of his fists into the front pockets of his work jumper. The rough tan uniform does not fit his thin frame well and the sleeves are rolled into thick doughnuts around his forearms.
"Please," I say and we turn to face each other in front of the open door.
"Don't put anything in your toilet," he pauses for emphasis while giving me a purposeful look, "that wasn't in your mouth first."
I consider this for a minute. A laugh is tickling the inside of my lip, but Pete's expression is dead serious.
"I know exactly what you mean," I say.
Pete's face collapses with reassurance. "Good," he says. "Because if you only could see the things I see," he hoists the toolbox with a grunt, then squints out at the sunny day.
"I can only imagine," I say.
Pete raises one eyebrow and gives me an inclusive nod, which I return. We both step onto the front stoop. He climbs into his swimming pool blue van, which has on its side panel a cartoon picture of a gleefully smiling hot water tank with two enormously muscular arms raised victoriously.
Pete drives away. I suck back into my house, silently vowing never to put anything in my toilet that wasn't in my mouth first.
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15 comments:
Sweet Sassy Molassy!
I don't, as a general matter, agree with that advice in any respect. For one, I don't lick or chew my toilet paper. I also don't lick or chew the spiders and other medium-size insects I routinely dispose of in the commode.
It sounds to me like Pete The Not Manly Enough was trying (and failing) to contrive a successful paraphrasing of this (accurate) ancient wisdom:
"Never put anything into your ear that is smaller than your elbow."
Why would anyone flush perfectly good poop down the toilet?
I am happy to discover that not just any guy with a name sewn on his shirt flips your switch. You clearly have standards.
I am confused by Garrett's response. How big is your elbow? Which part of your elbow? Isn't a q-tip designed for use in your ear? Isn't that smaller than your elbow?
This guy clearly knew his shit and was simply trying to impart a little wisdom regarding items that should or should not be flushed. I am certain that he did not expect to expose himself to criticism from the likes of Garrett.
Garrett, as your personal psychic advisor, I regret to inform you that you in fact do lick or chew toilet paper. And
lick or chew the spiders and other medium-size insects. I'm just trying to figure out whether it's the licking you do or the chewing... hang on, I'm getting my crystal ball...
Both.
Yes you are right.
I usually lick the toilet paper after I poop on it.
Of course I'm right. I'm your personal psychic advisor. You are to always know I'm right. Just like your mother, except I'm not your mother. I didn't carry you in my womb for nine months, so stop relying on me for everything Garrett. Next prediction, I'm charging.
Are you at all like the psychic in the movie Clerks?
That would be something.
Please carefully distinguish between me and Bizarro Garrett.
Flamingo - please see my blog for Exhibit "A" regarding Q-Tips. Exhibit "B" is the recommendation I received from an ear doctor who told me that my ears were filled with wax precisely because I was such a frequent and careful Q-Tipper. Something about the ear is designed to push gunk out of the ear but Q-Tips by their nature push it back in.
The Garrett's:
Okay, I think I have. Thank You.
The real Garrett likes his poop black, like his men.
I slugged my shitter up once....holy crap. I plunged and plunged.
Finally I was rewarded with the whoosh of yesterdays frozen pizza and pop tarts leaving my home.
Aren't toilets just amazing? I mean I have dropped turds that had to be a foot long in that sum bitch! Flush right on down.
Yet, I shoot out liquid goodies due to the above mentioned food and the fucking things plugs.
I collect poop. I never considered collecting toilet paper!
I'm going to need more space.
Hahaha.
Thanks for the comment. Not an Olive Garden fan either, huh? Olive Garden new slogan,"We don't put anything on your plate that hasn't been in our toilet first".
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