Disgusting Things

I am not exactly a gallant knight in shining tool belt. The skinned knuckle awards for laudable attempts at repairing old plumbing etc. are now faded memories of a time when I was young enough and foolish enough to fumble away my hours by trying to make such repairs. For me such attempts rise almost to the level of Olympic events. You laugh, but think about it. Most people can run, jump, and throw things, but few people can run fast enough, or jump high enough, or throw things far enough to compete in the Olympics, let alone win a medal there. Coming up short is the frustrating story of my life. Do you want to see how this works? Or, more accurately, how it does not work? All right, lets take an event; it is one in which I still participate on occasion. We will call it the “two handed plumber's snake thrust.” This event is made more interesting by forcing the participant (me) to jam the business end of the plumber's snake into a clogged pipe and through odoriferous material that is far too obnoxious to describe here. Suffice it to say that I live in fear of my nose getting stuck in a crinkled position it often assumes during involuntary rabbit like twitches caused by the offensive odor. Falling short of clearing the obstruction on this occasion has nothing to do with my prowess; it is really a matter of the snake not being long enough. The annoying part about not knowing that before I inserted the snake is that I now have to pull lengths of it back through the filth, out of the pipe, and into the room. Needless to say that I have a strong desire to avoid splashing, dripping is unavoidable.

The question du jour is how long of a snake I need to do the job. My use of “du jour” probably makes you think I am talking about a kitchen drain, but Paris is also famous for its sewers, don't you know? The inferiority complex I am getting from not being handy makes me want to show you that I know something many of you might not know ("du jour" means of the day). Demonstrating a bit of snobbery does a man good now and then, but I digress. The fact that the snake is not long enough to clear the obstruction in the pipe requires a decision. Should I drive twenty miles down the mountain to rent a snake that is long enough? If I do I better rent one that has an electric motor because manually turning one that is long enough to do the job would require the strength of a gorilla - a large, young gorilla. So screw that! I wisely decide that the price of gasoline plus the rental fee would cost me almost as much as a plumber would charge me. I am handy enough to write a check. The only reason I did not think of calling a plumber in the first place is because this house is old enough to require constant attention, and I would rather not adopt a plumber. Where is a marriageable daughter when you need one? All I have are dogs, literally dogs.

So let me tell you about my dogs. One is an ancient dribble dog and the other is an “I can pee anywhere better than you can” beagle. I might add that I feel fortunate when it is only pee. Between the effluent from my plumbing and from my dogs I spend way too much time dealing with disgusting things, and yes, I do say “shit” a lot.

First published in macsbackporch.fictionforall.com some time between April and September, 2013.