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My morning seemed to transpire harmonically as would any other. I made my morning feces in the tempered light of the bathroom by the glow of my electronic razor. Everything evacuated as precise as the previous day and that before it. My thoughts slowly rose from my sleep-like state into something slightly more alert as I made way with the last evening’s meal.

After the first flush- perfection, beautiful; the toilet sucked down my waste like a slippery couple of jello shots would tickle the esophagus of a college freshman. Initially, I suspected that my hind-quarters were a bit worse for wear, just by the nature of the breeze catching a few bits of glistening dampness against my skin. I was trained to handle such issues, even in the mornings lethargic embrace.

The first, second and third required toilet paper arrangements made their swirling way down the porcelain throat, hastily chasing after the burnt sienna-perpetrators that soiled their dainty stitching.

I took a final grace swipe to confirm that all Danger Zones were free of Loggins. Unfortunately, this proved to be the ‘Heartlight’ career mistake. I made my way to the couch for a quick recap of Rock of Love, Brett Michaels, and in doing so I soon realized I was under attack. The toilet had launched a complete naval assault on my linoleum flooring. Water pooled and ran everywhere that a dry space remained.
Toilet Water

I ran to the scene after pausing the Bret and immediately took to action. I’m no Mario and certainly underwhelm as Luigi but I have enough sense to pop open the reservoir top for inspection. The toilet was filling mercilessly, without relief. Meanwhile, its friend the reservoir was bone dry. I was staring into the mouth of a water beast that defied rational thinking.

I remembered from toilet class that you can pull up the little ball-thing and stop the water from flowing. OH, That’s right, there was no toilet class in school, because I learned nothing important. Instead my failed education lead me to yank on the black buoy-ball, and in turn, snap the entire fucking metal arm off of the handle.

Meanwhile, the toilet continued its mighty river rage. The reservoir tank began to fill out of disgust of my actions and lack of buoy to guide its decisions. What was once the slow meandering of the Serengeti river, became the roar of Yosemite Falls. I reached back to close the water line to bring all shenanigans to a halt, burying my face into the back of the toilet and nearly drowning in the process. Toilet water was spilling all over the top of my face and head, filling my ears and mouth. Toilet.
Toilet Water

I closed the water line off after a few shaky turns, thank goodness, and shortly thereafter called my landlord. “Hey, what am I going to do here? I can’t shit anywhere around. There’s nowhere to shit. No toilet.” And thankfully, she said, “Hey, you know, it’s Monday today, what if I get a shit mechanic there by Wednesday?”
I was cool with that under circumstances that I may never thoroughly understand about myself. A more urgent soulful type of person might scream to the Dickens, instructing such a landperson to make fornication onto themselves, without the proper immediate resolve.

At that time, with all business in order for the time being, I moseyed into work 45 minutes late, disgusting, covered in reclaimed water that feels unlike what you want it to against your skin and in your mouth, and in general I really needed a few additional showers and some Xanax.

But, no matter, I went into work and realized, “Wait a second. I’m going to need to do all my shitting at work today. There’s simply no other option.” I planned accordingly and executed as aforementioned, but made a very poor decision for dinner by picking up Panda Express. Call it a miracle of science and academy but that Orange Chicken doesn’t always sit well. In order to balance the effect of the Chinese brigade of bacteria on my small intestine, I ate an overindulging amount of Imodium that could probably have constipated several Shetland Ponies.

It was a planned constipation. In the storied history of bragging about your BM, no man since Theodore Rosevelt has pulled of such a maneuver and lived to speak of it the next day.

At work the following day, let’s call it Tuesday, mainly because it was. I selected and ate a PowerBar to adjoin a coffee; a combination that traditionally ignites my anal essence like really fragrant peach-vanilla soap does for the nasal.

As expected, major success. I blew the roof off of my work toilet, making those with natural disability or fear of shitting talk about me under their breath by the water cooler.

My entire Panda Express load curled out into the work toilet. It was perfect and beautiful in its own special way.
Barely able to contain my glee and self-worth sensationalism; I didn’t go straight home from work. I went to a friend’s house and played a healthy dose of Nintendo Wii, drank a few beers, ate some curry or something- may have been salmon- and had a greatastic old time. By the time I got home, it was 11:30, and on a school night, that means immediate bedtime.
Toilet Water

I did, I just passed right out- forgetting the Imodium. I slept like a conqueror of lands might.
6 AM Wednesday morning, I was awoken prior to the alarm clock by my whistling asshole.

My colon awoke me, and it was saying- not “Feed me”- but “Release me, NOW, Release me.” And, I didn’t have an answer for it.

It was the very day of the toilet fixing. I had nowhere to go. In Aladdin boxers at 6 AM, I’m not going to stumble on in to 24 Hour Fitness or Denny’s, take a shit and just head out without making a standard purchase or signing up for a new membership.

I considered trusting my guts in a Depends, as I’ve done before and been surprisingly successful. I could have shit into a trash bag, but I didn’t trust the generic store brand.

With time running extremely thin, I planted my feet on the faulty toilet and hung my bare ass into the shower. I made the decision palatable by thinking, “Hey man, listen. I had some beers last night, this shitting should be golden. I should just piss it right out, and it will slowly drain right down the shower with ease and regularity.”
It evacuated my torso with a boom and a thud.

Upon review of the damage, I was stunned to learn that I had just resolved a brown cement block out of my insides. It looked like an entire rotting raccoon carcass came out of my asshole and planted itself- growing with roots- onto my shower tub.

Using all resources to remove this miracle from its place, I turned the shower head with extreme heat and pressure blasting at the core of the creation. The Jews built one more indestructible pyramid, this out of the rubble of forced constipation.

Poop Sphinx

Disgust was beginning to set in and every 45 seconds, I began to gag. I couldn’t handle a single breath in the presence of my own brown baby.

Manning-up I took the toilet scrubber in hand, and stabbed at the apex of the terra-cotta structure, knocking small bricks off of it, but hardly destroying its core. I made drilling motions, pancake flip moves, and then finally, spinning the handle inside the core of the jumbo load to break it apart.

Slowly, it began to. As they say, it is not the blah blah blah cliché that breaks the boulder but all of the drilling motions that finally cause it to give way. The tyrannical waste was falling apart right before my very eyes, making me ever so slightly relieved that I might have an opportunity to tidy this mess before having to explain it to the plumber and landlady.

But, it wasn’t treating the drain so well. It was clogging, terribly. And, in a matter of minutes, my shower tub had turned into a poo-stew, growing by the second. The riddle of sphinx was solved, this pyramid was an entombment, and now I had woken the Gods that rest within. Feces water began to slop and steep the sides of the tub, splashing playfully against the once germ free porcelain.

With very little options, every caustic fluid in my small apartment walls found its way into the tub:
1 Gallon of bleach
2 ½ bottle of Windex
3 Hemorrhoid cream tube
4 ¾ Bottle Listerine
I was unprepared for defeat in this contest and therefore decided victory was the only option.
I perhaps created a small nuclear bomb in the tub as all of the ingredients collided, but nevertheless they succeeded in the 11th hour.

When I showered shortly after my feet were blistering as if I was standing on summer tarmac, but this is how every the-worst-morning-ever should end.