Horribly wrong. As a child, you're taught to clean up your messes. However, these messes generally encompass legos and the occasional decapitated disrobed barbie doll. As time progresses, you clean up more and more until you become almost completely responsible for all the filth you spew in your putrid wake. This gradual assertion of responsibility for your surroundings and personal hygiene (or lack thereof) is not really much of a burden until you're put into a situation in which you really have no idea what to do.
That situation? An uppity toilet that spits material that would make even Howard Stern pause momentarily before he defiled yet another stripper midget with his oh so curly hair.
So, in a slight panic, I go to the front desk, hoping against hope that at least a few soldiers of the massive maintenance/cleaning army for the University of Tennessee remain. To my chagrin, the response was to give me a mop, a bucket, a plunger, and some slightly mocking, slightly pitying words of encouragement. It was the equivalent of handing me a sword, pointing at the massing Mongol hordes, and saying "Well, here ya go. We're going to hide in this castle here. You're the one who called them fat, you go placate them." The door shuts behind you and you sit and stare, denial still trying to figure out some way to avoid the inevitable, oh so messy resolution to your predicament.
And to battle I went. The first order of business was to mop as the murky waters gradually subsided. It wasn't so much difficult or disgusting (I can't smell, for the most part, and it is a sense I am glad to be deprived of), but it was more of a "Really, does this actually do any good?" Apparently it sort of does. So I'd stick the mop on the floor, capture the "water", and squeeze it into the bucket. This went as well as such an activity can go until I got the bright idea to switch mopping positions. The bucket disagreed with this tactic and spilled its contents back on the floor. My reaction was less than dignified.
So it was that I fought back and forth for an hour, to no avail. Each flush only produced more to clean up. I went for reinforcements. Now, I have not spoken much of my friends at college, but they are indeed a ragtag bunch. Diverse individuals who make life, for lack of a better term, interesting. I put on the saddest puppy-dog face I could muster and practically sobbed in my efforts to discern if they knew anything about plumbing. Now, I know a bit about toilets, but nothing about the art of plunging. My grandfather is a seasoned professional of the trade, but I'm afraid none of his art rubbed off on me. At any rate, John Kelly came to my assistance.
He surveyed the scene of desolation, as I observed in a half-expectant, half-despairing way. I handed him the plunger. He sallied forth.
A flush.
The water rose, as the plunger furiously fought to keep it down in its place.
Futility.
Up, up, up, faster than I thought possible!
"ABORT! Get out of there John, it's not worth it man!"
But John fought on, and with some desperate last thrusts the foul brew sunk into the pipes as the Lord meant it.
I do believe that is the happiest I have ever been to hear a toilet flush.
Truth.
So it was left to me to clean up the remainder, but my primary foe vanquished, the rest was just culling the roving bands of defectors who refused to surrender. It's an experience I shudder to repeat.
And with the conclusion of my adventure, I feel as if I've accomplished something. Someday you, too, may have the privilege of this experience. Things to look forward to, eh?
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