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.