The Clog Blog - Revisited
Since it's summer and we all like to sit back and relax, I was thinking "hmm...I've had more readers lately and I think they might've missed out on a fun blog." So, I remembered this personal favorite and decided to post it again. You have to click on the links, otherwise it won't make sense.
It begins like this:
He pulls her chair out and she smoothes her skirt and takes a seat. He takes the seat across from her at the round two-person table. It is brisk out, but summer. The wind that blows off the French canal is stiff, but she doesn't mind. Either the wine will warm her, or she'll drape her delicate goose-fleshed arms with her sweater. He leans in, wearing his black blazer (that and along with his cologne, he knows he'll have her in bed before dessert), a white, button-down shirt and that sterling silver ring he bought years ago when he took a holiday in Italy.
The waiter in his white apron stops at the table, "Will we be starting off with some wine?"
"Please bring us your most expensive bottle," the blazer man cooes.
She begins to reach her hand across the table, and his meets her's mid-table. He takes her hand in his, rubbing his gentle fingers over her delicate, creamy knuckles.
Their eyes catch, and the fire that keeps their blood warm swims through the air. The air becomes irridescent when he leans in to...
*SPLAT*
And there it is. A wet, hairy, elongated turd lands on the white table cloth.
They both stand, appalled.
"Oh my God," she cries out.
"What is that?"
They look about in horror, but the waiter is nowhere to be found. Is the waiter ashamed? Is he cowering by the silverware, holding himself, rocking, saying "not again...please, not again..."
On the other side of the world, an older couple, not-so-dressed-up, look down at their bathroom sink and smile.
"Wow, that was fast," says the husband.
And with a sigh of relief, the clog that's been ailing their pedestal sink is finally gone. To a nice dinner. In France.
It's such a weird concept for a clog commercial -- but I dig it's shock value, and although I've never had a nice dinner interrupted with a black, clotted clog the size of a sewer rat, I do know how the not-so-dressed-up couple feels.
Since we live in an older home and don't have drains the size of alley ways, like how their building them these days, our sink has been clogging. We've tried a hanger, we've tried $1 store drain de-clogger, we've tried Drano Gel to eat away at the massive two-foot long hair and dooty-like clog that was living in our pipes like Crohn's Disease.
Brushing my teeth has never been so gross as all the spit and toothpaste foam builds up and takes ten minutes to dissipate. Washing my hands became a chore because I had to quickly lather and rinse before the sink filled up too quickly, while it drained so slowly.
We were out to buy another bottle of Drano Gel, hoping that would finally eat away the hair-snake that was growing to the size of a Python, when we came across a can of Liquid Plummer Jet. It said it'd take care of a clog in three seconds, just twist the cap, hold it over the drain and push. A burst of air and chemical shot out at Mach 7, firing that huge clog out.
It probably crashed down in England somewhere, on top of a snotty, rich couple (dressed all in white, mind you) about to play a game of tennis, killing them instantly.
It begins like this:
He pulls her chair out and she smoothes her skirt and takes a seat. He takes the seat across from her at the round two-person table. It is brisk out, but summer. The wind that blows off the French canal is stiff, but she doesn't mind. Either the wine will warm her, or she'll drape her delicate goose-fleshed arms with her sweater. He leans in, wearing his black blazer (that and along with his cologne, he knows he'll have her in bed before dessert), a white, button-down shirt and that sterling silver ring he bought years ago when he took a holiday in Italy.
The waiter in his white apron stops at the table, "Will we be starting off with some wine?"
"Please bring us your most expensive bottle," the blazer man cooes.
She begins to reach her hand across the table, and his meets her's mid-table. He takes her hand in his, rubbing his gentle fingers over her delicate, creamy knuckles.
Their eyes catch, and the fire that keeps their blood warm swims through the air. The air becomes irridescent when he leans in to...
*SPLAT*
And there it is. A wet, hairy, elongated turd lands on the white table cloth.
They both stand, appalled.
"Oh my God," she cries out.
"What is that?"
They look about in horror, but the waiter is nowhere to be found. Is the waiter ashamed? Is he cowering by the silverware, holding himself, rocking, saying "not again...please, not again..."
On the other side of the world, an older couple, not-so-dressed-up, look down at their bathroom sink and smile.
"Wow, that was fast," says the husband.
And with a sigh of relief, the clog that's been ailing their pedestal sink is finally gone. To a nice dinner. In France.
It's such a weird concept for a clog commercial -- but I dig it's shock value, and although I've never had a nice dinner interrupted with a black, clotted clog the size of a sewer rat, I do know how the not-so-dressed-up couple feels.
Since we live in an older home and don't have drains the size of alley ways, like how their building them these days, our sink has been clogging. We've tried a hanger, we've tried $1 store drain de-clogger, we've tried Drano Gel to eat away at the massive two-foot long hair and dooty-like clog that was living in our pipes like Crohn's Disease.
Brushing my teeth has never been so gross as all the spit and toothpaste foam builds up and takes ten minutes to dissipate. Washing my hands became a chore because I had to quickly lather and rinse before the sink filled up too quickly, while it drained so slowly.
We were out to buy another bottle of Drano Gel, hoping that would finally eat away the hair-snake that was growing to the size of a Python, when we came across a can of Liquid Plummer Jet. It said it'd take care of a clog in three seconds, just twist the cap, hold it over the drain and push. A burst of air and chemical shot out at Mach 7, firing that huge clog out.
It probably crashed down in England somewhere, on top of a snotty, rich couple (dressed all in white, mind you) about to play a game of tennis, killing them instantly.
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