Our recent plumbing problem (fixed by Ron, not Mario… sadly) and potentially disastrous ginger ale experiment reminded me of a kitchen sink situation I had a couple of years ago.
I am not a plumber. Nor am I a handy man. But I do watch TV, and when my kitchen sink started backing up, I knew what to turn to:
One Second Plumber™ we keep the drains running on time!
And why not? My sink was clearly clogged (just like they show on the commercial) and getting a $10 can of whatever seemed like a better option than paying a professional to do the job “right.”
So, on my way back from work, I stopped by the Safeway to pick up this miracle plumbing tool. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to use it. I was sold on the gimmick—the possibility of fixing this little drainage problem in one second. It was going to be the highlight of my day.
Once in my apartment, I didn’t even bother changing out of my suit. I went straight to the sink and started skimming the directions to the product. Good thing there were pictures.
I could see by the pictures that in the case of two sinks, I need to fill one with standing water (no problem in a clogged drain situation) and firmly put a sink stopper into the other. The next step was to firmly place the can of special pressurized gas into the drain of the standing water sink and then steady myself (against the other sink, in my case) for the final act of PLUMBING!
I may have been unprepared for what happened next.
With all the confidence of Red Green, I pushed down on the gas canister. For a second, nothing happened. Then things started to move in slow motion.
Without warning, the metal stopper in the dry sink launched itself past my head, just missing a killing blow. It was followed by a thick spray of an unidentifiable brown waste matter. In reflex, I swung my head back trying in vain to protect myself from whatever subterranean entity was attacking me. My body tensed for an instinctive fight response, but before I could use the empty gas canister as a bludgeon, the kitchen was quiet and still except for the metallic rattle of the stopper coming to a rest on the hardwood floor.
I had survived. But there remained evidence of a great battle.
Everything within a one metre radius was covered in chunky brown goop. The walls, the cabinets, the floor, the sink. I reached up to my face to find that the offending material needed to be smeared away from my eyes. I looked down to see my suit spackled with slime.
I may have retched. I don’t recall a smell.
The plumber (it was Mario this time) was over the next day. A $150 bill to replace some piping and clear out the works seemed so reasonable this time around.
It wasn’t until two days later that I began to notice a growing pain in my throat. I couldn’t recall ever having such a soreness before, so I became a bit concerned. Of course, the only natural explanation was that during the kitchen explosion, I had inhaled the mysterious brown fungus deep into my throat where it was currently gestating into an ever-expanding alien mold. I began touching my neck in panic. I cursed One Second Plumber™ for causing my untimely and horrific demise. I was preparing myself to die… in my office… alone.
I’m so thankful my office manager suggested that the pain was probably in my muscles and probably related to me whipping my head back to avoid being murdered by my sink. There must have been some truth to that since the “whiplash” disappeared in a few days and, in the two years since, I have never given birth to an alien mold child.
