16 September 2012
Me and My Toilet On the Weekend
While the rest of the world spent their Saturday on the golf course, by the lake, in the pub or shopping with their girlfriends, like Sonja did, I was home fixing the fucking shitter. It was just a worn flapper valve that needed replacing but upon closer inspection, I could see a small leak from one of the bolts that hold the tank onto the business end of the marvelous contraption. The whole thing was going to have be taken apart.
Already had a complete repair kit handy so I grabbed it from its shelf and all the tools I could think of that I might need to do what ought to be a simple job except deep in my sweaty memory I know it is not always a simple job.
The first shitter bolt, the one that was not leaking, came off with ease. The second did not. I have a lot of tools but I do not have a nuclear bomb in my tool box. Motherfucker would not give an inch. It was like the fucking boss at a grievance meeting.
I sprayed it several times with WD-40 and went to the pub while the magic chemical did its work. When I came back it still would not budge until at last it began to spin in place but not come undone.
I applied vice grips to the bolt end and wrenched away but the vice grips kept slipping off. Then I got a foot long 2x4 remnant from the garage and stuck it into the tank with the vice grips so that simplest of tools might rest more evenly on it instead of the tank.
Finally I got some fucking movement. "I got you you motherfucking piece of shit!" I yelled into the empty house as the rusty nut came loose and fell to the bathroom floor. I looked underneath where I learned I had only broken the bolt in half. The remainder sat there connected to the shitter tighter than a Dutchman to a dollar.
I briefly considered smashing the whole thing with the 2x4. That would have been too fucking easy. Instead I sprayed the stubborn rusty part with half a can of WD-40 and went back to the pub where my waitress asked me, "Why are your hands so dirty?"
"Been a home all day working on the shitter," I told her. She backed away from me and went, "Ewww." No one likes to think of a customer armpit deep in their shitter.
Later, having broke that rusty bolt once more, this time in the appropriate place, I was soon finished. My toilet, one of the trusty old ones you do not have to flush three or four times to dispose of a heap of beer shit and all the shit paper needed to keep your ass from sticking together all day, shone like a crazy diamond as the afternoon sun danced on it through the open window.
Not bad for an amateur turd herder.