Worst Case Scenario

For the past 36 hours, we have had a clogged toilet.  Not that big of a deal.  When my lovely wife Jennifer (henceforth to be referred to as the LW.  Depending on how we are getting along at the time, LW can either be the Lovely Wife, or the Little Woman.  The beauty of that is I am the one in the know, not her.) begins by asking if we should "call a plumber," my wounded ego politely declined.  

"Heck no, we don't need a plumber.  I can handle a clogged toilet!" 

Much to my chagrin, I could not handle it.  I plunged and rooted and splashed until I had blisters on my hands - all for naught.  Whatever dark thing was lurking in that murky abyss had become firmly entrenched behind bulwarks of the most God-awful stuff you could ever imagine. 

As I am sure you are aware, I am a man of finer tastes, and did not want to risk putting my hands into a liquid mess of this magnitude, especially with no clear understanding of what may await my timid grasp. It was bad enough to be in such close proximity to it, but the thought of actually immersing part of my body in that mess was entirely too taxing for my refined constitution.  I tried to convince the LW that we needed her more delicate and sensitive hands to reach in and pull out whatever was in there.  Her little fingers are reminiscent of a raccoon, and can reach into corners my more masculine fingers cannot get to.  And, with four children, I've seen her handle substances that would green the gills of the most seasoned plumber.  But surprisingly, she preferred to call a someone who knew what he was doing.  I, again, in my great wisdom and powerful man-knowledge of all things home related, refused. 

I stood poised over the bowl for what felt like hours as I slowly worked up the courage to do what must be done. Finally, I tore down my inner will and with a gasp and a plunge - reached into the depths.  Much to my distress, I found nothing.  

I decided to hold off and wait it out a little while because you never know, sometimes these things fix themselves.  My car has done that on numerous occasions.  So, I left. 

Imagine my consternation upon my return several hours later to find the toilet in the same sad state of disrepair.  It had not magically fixed itself.  I, a full-grown well-educated man with four children, actually believed that the clogged toilet would "be better" when I got home.  I forgot that there is no such thing as magic.  

As the matter had grown somewhat more dire, I made a quick trip to the Home Depot in search of a tool.  Buying a tool is a sheer-intimidation-offense move.  Sometimes just the act of buying the tool fixes things. 

Returning with what I thought was going to be the final solution in my hands, I knew the end was in sight.  I am sure it has a technical name.  I simply called it the $8 toilet unclogger. 

I jammed this puppy in there and started twisting and tugging and shoving and pulling.  Nothing.  I plunged some more.  Nothing.  Finally, I had the LW go out to the garage to retrieve some vice grips so that I could take the toilet off its moorings and really get to the root of the issue, but before I could do that, I had to empty the bowl.  

It was awful.  I mean it was like something out of Trainspotting.  I am still trying to block out certain scarring images.  

I asked the LW had to go to the sand box in the back and bring back a couple of buckets so that I could begin scooping the mess out, filling said buckets, and dumping them in what must now be a toxic swamp on the neighbor's side of the fence.  The plan was simple - I would fill a bucket and either hand it to her or bring it outside myself. 

The plan was working smoothly.  I handed the first bucket to the LW who, complaining bitterly, hauled it out.  The second bucket was far larger, probably holding about 4 gallons of sand in its heyday.  I filled it with at least 3 gallons of toxic mess.  I then gingerly picked it up by the sides, gently laughing to myself, "Wouldn't it be funny if I dropped this?"  

Want to know what is even funnier?  When the bucket you are holding with 3 gallons of stuff that you did not know your children could produce, breaks.  The rim to which I had attached my ninja death grip snapped off with a loud CRAAACK like the snapping of an angel's wing.  The bucket hit the floor from a height of about 3 feet and cracked right in the middle.  

Imagine if you will - me, standing there with two pieces of plastic bucket in my hands, mouth open wide, eyes the size of dinner plates and the sense of impending doom. 

When I say it was terrible, I am doing it a disservice.  It hit the floor with a loud splash and before I knew it, had successfully sheeted everything in a light brown liquid wash.  It was on the walls and cabinets, filled my shoes - everything.  Before I even had time to cuss good I watched a slow-motion tsunami of sewage go out the door, into the hallway, and quickly work its way into the playroom which, incidentally, was filled lots of lovely things Little Win likes to shove in his mouth.  (Turns out our house has a severe lean in one direction.)  I was powerless to stop it.  

I heard the unmistakable sound of ultimate human suffering emanate from the LW's mouth as she nimbly blazed through the room picking things up before they could get wet - including the hallway carpeting.  I just stood there. I earned it. 

This woman is quick.  If I am ever in a fire I want her to come and get me out.  I don't know if she could throw me over her shoulder, but she could certainly get there quickly.

Finally, after cleaning up the hazmat tidal wave, I was able to take the toilet off its moorings, run the $8 toilet unclogger in reverse, and pull out a child's building block that my wonderful 4th child shoved in, probably at the urging of the devil himself. 

I then burned my clothes, threw away 7 "borrowed" country club towels that did not make it back on Towel Amnesty Day, showered in the hottest water I could stand, and have not returned to the scene of the crime.  I don't need to - the memories of that wave of sewage will haunt me forever. 

In the future, when the LW asks if we should call the plumber, I will humbly, and with a shiver, say "Yes".