Three Mile Island

A man can only tempt fate so many times before the Cosmos bitch-slaps him across the face, gets back in its karmic Cadillac, and hootie-hoo’s down the boulevard to rough up its next deserving hoe.

Such was my dilemma recently, when I awoke to a strange smell wafting through my apartment. After years of intensive, two pack-a-day training for the lung cancer olympics, my olfactory senses couldn’t detect patchouli oil if I were swigging it from Jerry Garcia’s skull, so to be woken up by an odor, you can imagine it must’ve been outstandingly pungent.

I wallowed in bed for a few minutes, groping myself in accordance with morning ritual, and eventually walked into the bathroom where I stepped barefooted into a huge, steaming, corn-speckled puddle of brown irony. I looked down at the floor and began retching violently at the sight of my own gelatinous fecal matter covering every square inch of the bathroom – somewhere in the distance, a deity laughed.

I can’t explain how it happened or why (apart from the obvious karmic retribution theory), but my porcelain princess developed a case of bulimia overnight and decided to purge the fruit of my colon all over the floor. Sweet holy mother of disgust, Lake Shiticaca was a full inch deep in some areas, and I continued gagging as bacteria and tapeworms surfed the crests. The only thing damming this sea of backwashed sewage stew against spreading into the rest of apartment was the lip at the base of the door, whose name, though I’d cursed it a thousand times for stubbing my toe, I now praised to Allah for withstanding the crushing tides of my waste.

The sun was beginning to shine in through the window, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before this rancid brew started bubbling in the heat, so I did what any incapable person would do in this situation. I vomited off the balcony, put on the least crusty pair of socks I could find, and left for work hoping that the problem would magically disappear on its own.

Do you remember those “Life Skills” classes you took once a week in junior high or middle school? The ones that taught you to cope with the minor disasters of day-to-day existence? Well, while my classmates were learning how to operate a hot water heater, I was busy carving names of death metal bands onto the top of my desk and surreptitiously grinding my boner against the bottom because Becky Sue Earlybloom wore a sleeveless blouse and her bra was, like, totally exposed at the armpits.

Anyway, I arrived at the office with the smell of fresh puke on my breath, though no one seemed to think this unusual for me, and distracted myself for eight hours until finally asking the landlord to send out a -- what do you call them, plumbers? – to resuscitate my choking toilet. And in a testament to friendship, my buddy Sean drove me home, briefed me on basic cleaning techniques, and then mopped up most of Exxon-Valdez while I watched from the hallway trying not to act too relieved. You my nigga, Sean!

Not that any of my editorials has a moral, but I guess if there is a lesson to be learned here, it is that God/Allah/Miss Cleo/Chinese Restaurant Placemats are always watching us and anxiously awaiting the opportunity to fuck up our lives in the most deserved fashion. Be careful out there, kids.