( Caption: So Samuel Joseph Wurzelbacher, better known as "Joe the Plumber", can't win an election for you. But I bet he can plunge your toliet, right?)A lot of responsibility comes with marriage, such as taking care of your wife when she’s sick like mine is right now. However, to me that’s an easy one. I can make chicken noodle soup, hot chocolate, and Jell-O. The challenging part of being married, for me, is the Tim-Allen home improvement gig.
Growing up, my dad took care of all those things: changing the oil in the vehicles, patching holes in the wall, replacing chipped tiles, repairing damaged furniture, and unclogging toilets and sinks. To this day there isn’t a problem that my dad can’t solve. It’s his calling. A fixing-up vision I didn’t inherit.
Last week, the toilet in our apartment started acting up, such as not flushing with full velocity and taking a minute to drain and refill. Eventually, it stopped working at all. Oh, if there isn’t anything more inhumane than a toilet that won’t flush, I declare. So, naturally, I did the husbandly thing and bought a plunger. Heck, I’ve seen my dad do this plenty of times. Stick the plunger in there, plunge a few good rounds, and flush it away.
If only it could be that simple for me.
Well, I plunged and I plunged and I plunged. Like ole Naaman, I dipped and I dipped and I dipped, but nothing happened. When I flushed the toilet, the bowl filled up to the brink of overflowing, then slowly drained away over the next few minutes. Like any man worth a wooden nickel, when my first rounds of plunging didn’t work, I plunged harder.
I plunged until my Wal-Mart plunger ripped in half. Honestly. After a few hours of plunging, I had a still stopped-up toilet and a ripped plunger to show for my efforts. Now that’s efficiency.
So, for the next two days, when I needed to use the bathroom I drove to the OBU science building. It’s the only building I’m remotely familiar with because my wife lives in there, whether it’s labs, study groups, or watering her beans. I mean, it’s half acceptable that I can’t find a good job—I am in Arkadelphia—however, a real man can plunge a toilet whether it’s in Arkadelphia, Hong Kong (maybe, or do they use bidets?), or New York City.
Finally, I got fed up and went to Fred’s and bought me a real plunger. One of those with a wooden handle and a red plunger—just like the one my dad uses. This time, motivated and a little pissed off, it only took me a few good pumps to get the toilet back in working order.
Heck, I may open up a plumbing business of my own. Or, I saw in the newspaper where a plumbing store in Arkadelphia needed a branch manage. Whadda ya say, I think I’m their man?
Growing up, my dad took care of all those things: changing the oil in the vehicles, patching holes in the wall, replacing chipped tiles, repairing damaged furniture, and unclogging toilets and sinks. To this day there isn’t a problem that my dad can’t solve. It’s his calling. A fixing-up vision I didn’t inherit.
Last week, the toilet in our apartment started acting up, such as not flushing with full velocity and taking a minute to drain and refill. Eventually, it stopped working at all. Oh, if there isn’t anything more inhumane than a toilet that won’t flush, I declare. So, naturally, I did the husbandly thing and bought a plunger. Heck, I’ve seen my dad do this plenty of times. Stick the plunger in there, plunge a few good rounds, and flush it away.
If only it could be that simple for me.
Well, I plunged and I plunged and I plunged. Like ole Naaman, I dipped and I dipped and I dipped, but nothing happened. When I flushed the toilet, the bowl filled up to the brink of overflowing, then slowly drained away over the next few minutes. Like any man worth a wooden nickel, when my first rounds of plunging didn’t work, I plunged harder.
I plunged until my Wal-Mart plunger ripped in half. Honestly. After a few hours of plunging, I had a still stopped-up toilet and a ripped plunger to show for my efforts. Now that’s efficiency.
So, for the next two days, when I needed to use the bathroom I drove to the OBU science building. It’s the only building I’m remotely familiar with because my wife lives in there, whether it’s labs, study groups, or watering her beans. I mean, it’s half acceptable that I can’t find a good job—I am in Arkadelphia—however, a real man can plunge a toilet whether it’s in Arkadelphia, Hong Kong (maybe, or do they use bidets?), or New York City.
Finally, I got fed up and went to Fred’s and bought me a real plunger. One of those with a wooden handle and a red plunger—just like the one my dad uses. This time, motivated and a little pissed off, it only took me a few good pumps to get the toilet back in working order.
Heck, I may open up a plumbing business of my own. Or, I saw in the newspaper where a plumbing store in Arkadelphia needed a branch manage. Whadda ya say, I think I’m their man?
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Maybe we should have a Dribbling Ink, then an Oozing Sarcasm counter for each blog :P
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