Wednesday, February 09, 2005
To Spite My Face
I was ticked off last night. I had nothing exciting to accomplish so I flipped on the television to see if any movies were playing. (Shut up, I know.) So there I am watching The Animal starring Rob Schneider (Shut up, I know.) when I'm offered a pork chop by one of my roomates. Shit yeah.
As I'm accepting my chop she berates me for my poor dedication to dishwashing. I was not having this. I wash my dishes with stunning regularity and rarely have more than one pan and one plate in our chipped yellow double basin. I am certainly the only one who washes the utensils when I do all the dishes, which is twice a month on average. She likes to marinate them in Comet so they'll be pure for the rapture.
I know I'm right because I'm the only employed member of the household and I often don't eat at home for days at a stretch. The other roomie keeps his dishes in his room for science. When he escorts them out to the kitchen shortly before they evolve into skin-melting bacterias, he leaves them on the counter, not in the sink.
That leaves her. After some verbal combat she backed off. I'll spare you the mundane drama. I decided to do all the dishes and to go buy plastic for myself. Let them choke on mold spores and try to blame me. I'll show them. There will be no way to blame me for the garlic mushroom sludge thickening into goopy little puddles, attaching fork to saucer like superglue.
So I'm almost finished when a whispered moaning emits from the right drain. Then comes a soft gurgle like an ebola victim's last wet breath. My nose twitches. The signals reach my brain. I realize that my nose is under assault. Somehow the contents of the dumpster at the abortion clinic got mashed into jelly and pumped down my sink. Two weeks ago. That ain't fresh dead baby. I choke.
Time for action. I look under the sink. We have plastic pipes, so Draino and bleach are not options. These pipes are leaking into a plastic tray full of candlesticks, cupboard handles, cardboard, and empty freeze-dried coffee jars.
I let the water in the sink go down. This takes a while. I unscrew the threaded gaskets and take the pipes down. Thick black and grey sludge (chopped eel?) spews forth with a Heimlich maneuver POP! and splashes clumsily onto everything under the sink, which naturally I'd neglected to remove before I started this ill-advised exploration. Now it smells like a full port-a-potty on a very hot, humid summer day.
It was so ugly I almost found religion to get me through the cleanup and pipe flushing. Just kidding. Jesus wouldn't go near that crud. I spent the better part of an hour cleaning up the mess while the dish berater asked me to save things that were covered in black filth she thought might be battery acid. I often refused and chucked the item anyways. She thanked me at the end and we're cool now.
My brain was so badly damaged through my nose that I watched basketball and ate carrots before going to sleep.
10:02 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
Come And Get Me Neil, I Dare You
Tin Soldiers / Four Dead
Chemlawn For The Soul
Corpse Putrefaction Calculations
Plastic Saturns vs. Dashboard Daisies
Pants On Fire