(This was the inaugural Hoodoo of the 2013 campaign.)
It is I, says me. I have returned from a months’ long
slumber, a retreat into the heart of football-deprived darkness in which I
honed my Sith ways and focused my sports-based hatred into a precision laser
cutting instrument. I have awakened, and
I have come to delivereth onto you hordes a new season of hoodoo-ness.
I must admit, I do not fear Virginia Tech. Despite the
protestations of our Dark Lord, I do not think we have much to fear from the
Beamerites of the western Virginny hills. Given the relative weakness of our
first foe, I will offer mild hoodoo. But alas, an offering of hoodoo is
required, so shall it be.
Not too long ago, during the winter (or spring) of my
discontent, a leak sprung from OWB’s restroom facility. Started as a drip, but
like all drips, it soon evolved into a trickle, the trickle into a stream, and
before long, the end result was a gusher that covered the bathroom. It washed
over the vile surface of the restroom floor like Noah’s nightmare, mingling
with the misplaced urine (I have young children…one of whom is a boychild) and
long-hidden snippets of toilet paper dropped by my youngest. Mix into that
fetid composition a little mud tracked in on errant boot lugs, the contents of
a small floated (and subsequently overturned) trash can, a little dirty water
oversplash from overzealous bathtub recreation ( I refuse to explain this), and
we were left with a nasty assortment of wastewater for which I had no remedy.
Not wanting to “harsh my mellow” by cleaning up such a
dastardly array of pathogens at the time, I decided to go about my business for
the day, leaving Lake Teetee-Caca behind for a later hour, when I had consumed
a sufficient amount of liquid courage to tackle such a daunting level of
disgust. That in and of itself was my first mistake, as I learned long ago from
my 92 year old GrandMa-Ma (yes, the former Heisman finalist…she was robbed,
yo!) that a left mess does not clean itself, but only reproduces. Oh, how I
should have adhered to her wisdom on this occasion, as I returned that evening to
soaked and nasty baseboards, wet floor-level sheetrock and a grouchy Mrs. OWB
who had ingeniously assembled garden stepping stones in the bathroom to keep
herself above the swamp. She didn’t want to clean it either, of course, but
seemed to take pleasure in knowing that ultimately, OWB would be behind a mop
in latex gloves and hip waders.
After a brief verbal interlude which was nearly as
unpleasant as the task at hand, I set about my chore. Sloppy. Nasty. Why does
kid pee smell so much worse than adult pee? Or does it? There must be a theory
of pee relativity by which to measure the intensity, but alas, I digress. Aside
from these existential questions on the nature of life, in my somewhat altered
state, I sought only to knock out the task and get on with my evening. My ire
somewhat raised by the lack of volunteerism afforded me as I undertook the
clean-up, I bumbled and banged, cussed and clanked, making my displeasure known
to my fellow occupants. Curse words abounded, flowing as effortlessly as the
effluent that by this time was nearly ankle deep.
In my simmering rage (and apparent mild state of
intoxication), I slipped from the stepping stone array my spouse had placed on
the bathroom floor. Not wanting to fall into the sewage, I flailed, grabbing
“holt” of the over-the-toilet towel rack against the wall. Now, I like me towel
racks the way I like me women: cheap and fragile. When my 250 pounds of
momentum displaced the balance of the rack, it began to tumble. The grab was
enough to right my balance, and with the agility of cat, I pressed the towel
rack into the wall with my shoulder, preventing its complete tumble into the
abyss.
Momentum is a hell of a physic. That is the singular of
physics, correct? A physic? Anyway, because of that particular physic, though
the towel rack itself stopped, its contents continued forth, spilling into the
floor. These contents included: wife’s prized hairbrush, tooth brushes of all
family members, two towels, my shaving kit, a bottle of Flexaril, a hairdryer
and my daughter’s hard-backed book. Woe was me. Towels could be washed and
sanitized, or tossed, no biggie. And hell, we all needed new toothbrushes
anyway. The book landed on a stepping stone and was easily wiped clean. The
shaving kit was mine, so disposing of it was not a problem. Flexaril…I mean
hell, who doesn’t have ten or 12 bottles of Flexaril sitting around in
strategic locations. In other words, even it was easy to replace.
But the kicker was the hairbrush. My spouse’s favorite, her
totem, that she had amply expressed to me was irreplaceable on many, many
occasions. We once drove across the Bay on the off chance that a beauty store
in that neck had her brush’s twin, but to no avail. This damn thing is like her
Holy Grail, and her desire for a back-up is a thirst that has never been
slaked. It was cherished, and irreplaceable, and I knew that she would
immediately know it was missing if I tossed it.
So I had a decision to make, a quandary of the nastiest
variety. Toss the brush in the name of sterility and sanity, knowing full well
my life could very well come to an end as a result. Or, wipe off the brush and
bury the events of that evening so deeply in my breast that they could never
emerge.
Genteel-men, I believe we already know the way this story
ended. I asked myself, “Self, WWOWBD? (What Would Ole Whistlebritches do?). The
answer, “Why son, I say son, he’d pick ‘er up, wipe ‘er clean, and put ‘er back
on that rack, all purty-like.”
So I did. And I bear the shame to this day. My wife uses
that brush incessantly, and I have to watch her do it in silence. I cleaned it
as well as I could, but truth be told, had it been mine, I would have tossed
it. Better yet, burned it. It is so nasty, psychologically speaking, even
though I know I adequately sterilized it. Bless her heart, she never even knew.
Watching her use it each day is the Lord’s sick, depraved way of making sure I
never put off cleaning a mess, and do not attempt angry (or drunken) house
cleaning in my future endeavors as a man.
Moral of the story: Don’t get married. And keep a plumber
(and ServiceMaster) on speed dial.
RTR
OWB out
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