I was just out shoveling.  This was because we received fourteen inches of new snow.  It was a disappointing event, particularly because all of the snow from earlier in the winter had just melted off.  Cruel, cruel world.  Personally, I blame Donald Trump.  The snowfall was the FSM’s punishment for not building the wall fast enough.  Of course, if this were true it should have snowed in Mexico as they are the ones who need to pay for the wall.  I know that I have no interest in doing so.  I need money for beer and baubles.  Plus, my furnace is making a funny noise.  It sounds like there is something wrong with the blower.  Then again, I am not a licensed HVAC guy.  On the other hand, I like stating my opinion even if I don’t know what I am talking about.  This is America.

Speaking of America, I see that we are last in life expectancy among first world countries.  Apparently, obesity and lethargy aren’t good strategies for long life.  Who knew?  Scientists, I guess.  Maybe if we just fired all of them then we would live longer.  At least we could just make them shut up about it.  It is working for climate change.  Look outside if you don’t believe me.  Snow as far as the eye can see.  The snowbank in my yard is literally seven feet high.  Does that sound like global warming to you?  Because it sure doesn’t to me.

Speaking of snowbanks, I am just about to the point where I have nowhere else to put the snow.  One more snow event and we will be walled away from society.  While you might find this possibility depressing, you do not possess the creative mind of the MO.  If you did, you would be writing your own witty and insightful blog.  Little Boy Blue’s Banana.  On second thought, maybe not that one.  There are a lot of people in the world who see innuendo everywhere.  Mostly Communists.

But I digress.  What I was talking about was what to do with the snow.  After all, it is going to be quite some time before this snow melts.  Until then, it just sits around, doing nothing and getting dirty, hoping that more snow will fall from the sky.  March is just as depressing for snowbanks as it is for you.  It’s tough knowing the end is near.  And snowbanks don’t have heaven like you do.  Or 77 virgins.  They melt and that is pretty much it.  But not if I have my way.

You see, I propose that we set up a Maginot line of old refrigerators along the Mexican border (It makes sense as Mexico used to be ruled by the French.  Watch Two Mules for Sister Sara if you don’t believe me.  You can learn a lot from Clint Eastwood films.  For example, orangutans are really smart.  And Sonda Locke is a horrible actress.  Like Jennifer Lopez bad, without the looks.  Yipes!).  Anyway, you might argue that old refrigerators can be moved pretty easily by enterprising Mexican banditos.

But not if they are filled with snow.  

Do you see the genius of it?  We get rid of snow and place it in the way of Mexicans who, by their very nature, are repulsed by snow.  It is kind of like filling refrigerators full of garlic to keep vampires from the border (Note that Dracula was an illegal immigrant.  From a Communist country, no less.  We speak English here, Dracula.  Not Transylvanian.)  Yes, I know Transylvanians speak Romanian.  Pay attention for once.

These refrigerators could be run off a large coal burning generator.  This solves another problem.  Appalachian joblessness.  After all, we will need a lot of coal to keep those refrigerators cold and full of Mexican repelling snow.  I care about toothless hillbillies at least as much as the next guy.  Speaking of EPA avoidance, old refrigerators are full of stuff that the Liberals don’t want in the water.  Put them in the wall and no one can see anything.  Freon leaks, like freedom, isn’t free.

I just realized that last sentence doesn’t make much sense.  Or does it make sense and it only doesn’t seem to because of the lying media?  Probably that.  Regardless, I have solved our immigration problem, the old refrigerator disposal problem, and West Virginia’s job problem all in one fell swoop.  Plus, the next time somebody tells you there is global warming, you just point your finger to the South and ask them about all that snow on the border.

Explain that one away, eggheads.

It is true of life that everything is about perspective.  If you are a billionaire, tepid eggs are cause for a shit fit.  Give these same eggs to starving refugees and they become a cause for celebration.  This truth becomes especially true in affairs of the toilet.  With toilets – and with deference to those 80’s rock icons, Poison– “you don’t know what you got, till it’s gone.”  In this instance, the thing that was gone was the ability of the downstairs toilet to flush.

You see, my oldest stepson does not completely understand the correlation between the amount of toilet paper one uses with the toilet’s (or more specifically the pipe’s) ability to process said toilet paper.  If I sound agitated, this is not the first time the downstairs toilet has been plugged.  The last time was, too put it literally, a veritable shit storm that went on for hours before reconciliation.  After this traumatic episode, I made my stepson promise me to consider the volume of toilet paper he used in the future.  But promises, like the bones of the osteoporotic, are often broken.

“My toilet’s plugged again.”  Words of doom.  Yet, I remained calm.  As I always do.  Surely, this plugging would be of the garden variety kind.  Just a few plunges and the stoppered up water would gain sweet release.

“Let’s see what you have,” I said jovially.  The toilet was indeed plugged.  I instructed my stepson to get the plunger.  He could do the plunging as he had done the plugging.  It would be a good life lesson and all that.  Perhaps next time he would think on it a little more before blithely dispensing toilet paper.

Fifteen minutes passed and there was no progress.  I wanted the lad to struggle, but there is one immutable fact about a plugged toilet.  He who owns it must ensure its freedom.  Reluctantly, I took the plunger from the lad’s hands and started in.  An hour later- and after several very unpleasant bailings- the toilet was still plugged.  I tried to snake it out, I tried vinegar and baking soda, Drano.  No dice.  I did a short dance and gave a salt offering to Porcelis, goddess of all water closets.

In frustration, I poured a bunch of Drano into the toilet and cordoned it off until morning.  Perhaps a good soaking would do the trick.  Plus, how long could the obstruction last without dissolving?

The answer was at least nine hours.  More Drano and more waiting.  With everyone out of the house, I once again began my quest to restore the toilet’s freedom.  I plunged and plunged and screamed the F word.  Neither plunging nor swearing had any effect.  Though the swearing did make me feel better, as it often does.

Eventually, the toilet came unplugged.  I poured scalding hot water into the bowl, which increased the suction of the plunger sufficiently to free the obstruction.  Physics, you know.  When the water finally, incredibly, went down the drain, I did a victory dance and gave a primal scream.  For there is nothing in life better than unplugging the unpluggable.

Nothing at all.