Fetid Waters

A dictator stands on a platform red-faced and screaming.

Cut to five minutes before.

H standing at the kitchen sink and says, "The sink is clogged." Uh-Oh. "Oooh, I say, the sink is clogged? (long sigh)." As if this is the most interesting news all day. Oh the excitement.

H begins to fix the clog. I haul out everything from underneath the sink and he places a bucket under the pipes. Rockin' good times in our house. T.D. grabs a seat. Front and center. She gets comfy Indian Style right in between the bucket and H. I lean down to see her rapt little face. H unscrews the pipe and does a little tap.

Suddenly, a whoosh of water is heard and I am doused from the knees down with disgusting, putrid, baby-vomit looking drain water. I am wearing sandals. I can feel the gritty squish between my toes. Blech. H and I step back from the minefield. He has gotten sprayed too. Sickening. We look at at a stunned T.D. She is DRENCHED. The rank garbagey water has splashed right into her face. Smelly drain water drips from her wispy hair into her eyes and down her face. The front of her clothes are soaked. Her pink shoes with the flower-shaped cut outs already reek of fetid water. They make a sucking sound as she stamps her feet in anger. We cannot help but laugh. The dictator's lower lip puckers out and she runs from the room incredibly fired up that such actions have occurred. She climbs to the landing in our staircase and glowers down at us. Red-faced and pissed she lets out a shrieking scream. The screams continue full-on until she is placed in the bath. Dictators love rubber duckies and soapy water.

H and I are still snickering over the whole ordeal.





****Where was this when I needed it? I could have burned up the boards as some of my past office jobs. Initech? Yeah, I worked there.