When flushing becomes flooding

Thursday, July 25, 2019
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Ramblings of a Conservative Cow Doctor

My summer is awash with grandkids, so we are suffering clogged toilets. Sheryl Crow’s campaign to save the climate by limiting one’s toilet paper use to a single square is no match for my grandkids spinning the Charmin. Every time the little poopers plug the toilet, they flush it repeatedly until the swirling sewer soup pauses at the crest of the porcelain levy. They should scream for help, but like Democrats who believe even though socialism has failed every time it has been tried, it will work this time, so they flush it a final time. Then they call me. I could stop here but there is more to my toilet story.

Saturday evening, the toilet bowl was nearly empty. Our toilet tank is decorated with an antique bin filled with potpourri—colorful gourds, pinecones and walnuts. Five years ago, grandson Will plugged the toilet with a potpourri gourd, perhaps one of his younger cousins repeated his crime. I plunged and flushed, but the water would not flush properly. There had to be a partial plug. Figuring the potpourri devil struck again, in disgust, I dumped the gourds into the garbage, and then learned a life lesson about potpourri.

Apparently, the trophy wife holds potpourri in esteem equal to my opinion of a fine shotgun, good horse or cow dog. Because we have been married 40 years, I could pick up what she was putting down even though she said not a word. Early the following morning I unbolted the toilet, rolled it onto its nose and discovered two fourinch carrots wedged crossways in the toilet’s backside. I removed the carrots, reattached the toilet, recovered the potpourri from the garbage and placed it back on the tank. I expected a hero’s reception from the trophy wife, but apparently dissing potpourri is a crime not offset by good behavior. More silence.

Now to identify the offender. I sat the four mini-Kerns kids around the table and devised a game to coerce a confession. One at a time, I placed four objects in a sack—a muffin, tennis shoe, apple and lastly the offending carrots. After admiring the grand prize gift bag, each grandchild took turns identifying each object strictly by feel. None identified the carrots, so I tossed them on the countertop and said whoever can guess where I found these carrots wins the grand prize. Liam shouted, “The toilet!” Mystery solved. Like Speaker Pelosi yearning to pass Obamacare to see what was in it, Liam excitedly fell on his sword to see what was in the gift bag. The grand prize was carrot sticks. Liam may never eat carrots again.


Do you believe in ghosts?

The Laurel Outlook


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