Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Buying a Plunger Is the Worst Thing Ever

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because there’s no way to shop for one without telling everyone else who can see you that you have broken your toilet. People don’t just casually shop for plungers. You only go buy one when something horrible has happened to the inner workings of the most valuable chunk of porcelain in your home.

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because no one seeing you carry it to the register will assume that you tried to flush a variety of counter wipes that aren’t meant to go in the toilet. No, everyone who sees you buying the plunger will assume that you have a terrible diet and, on top of that, poor judgment of when to pull the chain. They don’t know. They don’t want to know. They just assume.

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because you look like a fool for not having already owned one. Seriously, how did you not? It’s an item whose usefulness is easy to overlook but impossible to ignore completely, lest you tempt fate itself. “There’s never going to be a time when a plunger is all that stands between me and a colossal deluge of filth-water rendering my home unsanitary.” That’s what you might as well be saying when you don’t own a plunger. The hubris!

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because your reluctance to do so will make you search the house looking for where one might have been hidden. Clearly, if the plunger is not in the bathroom, it simply is not. But you’ll find yourself looking in all manner of out-of-the-way places in hopes that you, perhaps drunkenly, thought to stow it in the cabinet where you keep grocery totes or the shed where you keep lawn implements. You so dread the idea of buying a plunger that you check the shelf of paint cans in the garage, just because you can hallucinate that you saw one there once. You didn’t. There is no plunger.

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because it’s impossible to disguise. If you were buying, say, especially narrow condoms to fit your grotesque pencil-dick, you could bury the package beneath other items in you basket. However, this is not an option when you’re buying a plunger, which is large and impossible to hide and flagrantly plunger-shaped at all times.

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because the closest place to buy one near your broken toilet house happens to be the grocery store, and on this particular morning the store is oddly populated with handsome shoppers, including this guy who you’ve decided is a bearded, Silver Lake version of the Little Red-Haired Girl from Peanuts. He is dressed nicely. You are wearing cut-offs and a shirt that has paint stains and a hoodie with a hole in one elbow. And you are buying a plunger. You can’t do it, however. You can’t just walk to the register, plunger in hand, so you wander around the store buying an impossible collection of other items — gluten-free bread, cannellini beans, a candle, fish soup that you can heat simply by dropping the package in boiling water, just in case you are camping and you need fish soup — all in an effort to seem like the customer you know doesn’t exist, the kind who goes out for a carefree day of shopping and decides, “Oh! A plunger? Well, I’ve never, but is today the day? Why yes! I think I will buy this plunger, just on a whim. Look at me, a plunger-owner!”

Buying a plunger is the worst thing ever because it ends up costing you twenty-five dollars more than it should have, cannellini beans and all.

But hey — you do have a plunger now, and every time you see it, it will remind you that your bearded Little Red-Haired Girl thinks you the type of guy who breaks his toilet.

A funny story, previously:

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