all-the-way-dad status achieved.
why would that be a thing?
i'm glad you asked-
for the SECOND time this year,
i get to spend a big ol' pile of money on fixing the doo-doo buttery
doo-doo watery doo-doo pipes in the Folk Life & Liberty Fortress.
a giant man, with a giant vacuum,
and a flexible giant pipe cleaner
spent most of the late morning drilling, emptying,
and filling in some of the plumbing.
because i guess my family takes the rules to heart.
which is nice,
except when that means ignoring decrees put in place
to protect the infrastructure of my homely haunted house in the hills
well, i'm just sayin'-
too much is the right amount doesn't apply to toilet paper.
the guy pulled out so much girlie grossness,
and that on top of enough toilet paper to deforest the amazon.
not only is that confusing,
but it's also such a dad thing to get mad about.
when everything is plugged up,
and yesterdays meals are awakening as today's draugar,
that's a very dadlike thing to actually justifiably BE mad about.
NO one did it,
somehow, despite the absence of culprits,
it's all really happening,
and i'm the one covering the cost of the damage i didn't do.
.......that sure sounds pretty parental to me.
he found a secret pipe.
secret pipes hide in the walls, and be old as heck.
lead, and caulk, and makeshift-rigging old.
and that's old.
there's been a sink that leads to the secrets in the bathroom for years,
but it turns out that the waterfalls flow slowly through this little weiridie,
and provide a bacterial breeding ground that rivals the first days of creation.
i'll give you a guess as to what lived in the wet, worrisome,
weak-sauce of this derelict section of underground diluvial disgustingness.
it wasn't an animal.
i doubt one could've survived the scene.
as a matter of fact,
i think it was the trapped last breath halitosis of every corpse in the whole universe.
....that's what it smelled like, anyway.
unholy sh!t, maybe.
everything is cleared out, now.
including my wallet.
i'm glad it's all better.
but the real question i'm asking myself is-
will unnamed nobodies somehow manage to mysteriously mangle
all of it all over again, for a trifecta of terrible terror in the tubes?
i hope not.
raining on my days and nights;
pipes and plumbs and plumpy puppies;
bank notes and bank statements that don't make sense;
there's no time for everything.
there's barely even any time for just some things,
because there's always something there to distract and deflect effective use
of the seconds,
so that sloppy secondhand success is the best i can glean from the corners
of each overlong and overfull day.
hard styles and lead linings, neighbors.
that's not silver, it's poison, or maybe quicksilver,
moving super-slowly, and seeping into the loose lengths of wet wood
in between the floorboards.
every day, there's something.
or several somethings.
never nothing, and never ever nothing to do,
even when there's nothing to be done about it.
real life is a clogged drain;
never quiet, never soft.....