Ang's bathroom tiling project is still going swimmingly as of last night, but in order to properly remove all of the linoleum and tile the entire floor, I had to remove both the pedestal sink and the toilet. I've replaced both toilets in my house, so I knew full well what I was in for once I wrestled the throne away from the floor. The sight of oozing, dark yellow wax clinging to decades of filth, the hot donkey punch of methane to the face, and the unavoidable splashes of bowl water dripping from the bottom of the base. It's enough to make a lesser man cry. And I am that lesser man.
Since my house has two bathrooms, my bathroom-related projects have been easier on the digestive system and urinary tract because if one toilet is out of order, I can always use the operational backup crapper. Ang only has one bathroom, however, so planning the timing of the toilet's removal and the subsequent project steps were mission critical:
1. Remove as much of the linoleum as possible on Friday night, leaving the toilet in place, and stay at Ang's that night.
2. Take the toilet out on Saturday, remove what little linoleum remains, and scrape the floor clean after one last liberal coating of adhesive remover. Stay at my place and allow the floor to dry overnight.
3. On Sunday, patch up any major gouges, sand down the floor, sweep, vacuum, and lay down the mortar and tile.
4. Give the mortar at least 24 hours to set, then grout.
5. Give the grout 24 hours to set, then seal it.
6. Put the toilet back on, finish up the trim work, borders, replace the door threshold, and bone on the new floor Punky Brewster style, covering it with sexual juices to test its durability.
Unfortunately the biggest snag came, appropriately enough, during item number 2 on Saturday. Diligently keeping our schedule, I pulled out the toilet and gently laid it on a piece of cardboard in the tub to get it out of the way. I scraped away as much linoleum as I could, then coated the floor with a generous helping of toxic adhesive remover. After about 30 to 45 minutes of vigorous floor scraping, I felt a familiar and dreadful pressure in my trouser-covered hindregions. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding me. That's right. I had diarrhea. And not just a mild gurgle. This was a full on sweet-fancy-Christ-blessed-croutons-I-have-to-shit-RIGHTNOWWW emergency.
Ang was soon privy to my dilemma. "What's wrong over there, Jeremy?"
"OOOOOOOH. OHHHHHHHH. AHHHHHHH. EEEEEEEEE. I have diarrhea. Oh God. Ohhhhhhhmuhgod."
"Well, you're going to have to go to the gas station down the street. Go!"
"Can I take your car?" Mine was parked down the street, and hers was right outside the front door of the building.
"Yes! GO!!!"
[Jeremy-shaped puff of smoke dissipates slowly]
I gunned the powerful engine in Ang's Impala, driving over hedges, jumping curves, and plowing through shrieking crowds at poorly-timed Farmers Markets, racing to beat a ticking timer wired to a shoebox full of C-4. "Owwwwww... OOOOHHHHHH!" I sideswiped a bus hauling a wide-eyed high school marching band. "UNGHHHHHHHH!" I sent an elderly man carrying a grocery bag sailing over the edge of an overpass. "OHHHHH MANNNNNNNNN!!!!" I crashed through the display window of a costume shop and careened off its rear loading dock in a tidal wave of monster makeup, feather boas, and corsets. "Ohshitohshitohshit!!!!"
Finally the gas station was within sight. I cranked a hard left at 60 miles per hour, unbuckled my seatbelt, and pulled the emergency brake to catapult my body through the windshield, the gas station window, and a 6-foot stack of Pepsi fridge packs. I picked myself up and ripped the door off the hinges of the locked men's room. In one liquid motion, I bitch slapped the shocked occupant off of the toilet and triple salchowed my way onto the seat. "HUNGHUGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!" A torrent of river bed mud filled the bowl and overflowed onto the floor. I was too relieved to care and stood to hover. "UH-GUNNNGHHHHHHHHHHAHHHH!!!!!" A meteor storm of solid remnants pelted the seat, cracking it in two.
And there I stood. I was soaked from head to toe in sweat, blood, and high velocity blowback. My nose was broken, my left shoulder was pulled out of the socket, and a crowd of patrons and gas station employees had gathered near the door, mouths agape, eyes unblinking. I didn't have enough physical or mental energy left to feel shame, so I just pulled up my soggy pants to cover my unwiped ass, stumbled to the cooler to grab a gallon of skim milk, and paid the quietly sobbing cashier with a five-dollar bill covered in smeared russet and burgundy fingerprints. I left without my change and rolled the car back to Ang's on idle.
We learned a vital lesson that day. You can't plan a schedule for the functions of your body and you can't outwit God, so always bring a bucket.
5 comments (leave yours):
Couldn't you just cut out the middle man and go directly into Angie's toilet hole?
Another masterpiece of visceral storytelling. It was like Cloverfield, except the monster was poo.
Kevin, I didn't want to have to clean her floor again. Although now that I think of it, that probably would have dissolved the linoleum adhesive more quickly.
Max, it was more like the milkshake from There Will Be Blood.
I have to wonder if portions of the tale were elaborated upon. If not, congrats on sticking it to the man by hurdling through a Pepsi display.
Sornie, the core element of the story is true -- I did commit vehicular homicide by knocking an old man off an overpass with my car and later bought some milk.
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