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ATTACK OF THE 36D SHOWERBREAST!

December 12, 2010

Some of you guys who have known me for a while will not be surprised about what I’m about to write about, but for the rest of you, here are some mood-setting highlights from past blog entries.

  • (September 29, 2009)   Earlier this year my toilet stopped working and I fixed it using only a towel and a toilet brush and it was the happiest moment of my life.
  • (December 25, 2009)   And it came to pass, in that bathroom, that I rolled up my sleeve and plunged my arm into the frigid waters of a toilet tank. On the baby Jesus’ birthday.
  • (October 28, 2009)   As the careful reader may have surmised, I am not a religious man. I’m not even a man at all. But yesterday when I came home to a kitchen flooded with the tepid food-specked effluent of the upstairs neighbours’ kitchen sink, I had an epiphany.
  • (October 28, 2009 [re August 2007])   And one hour thence, did the water heater not begin to leak most cunningly? And did I not spend the next fortnight manufacturing wondrous spill-catchers out of surplus cat litterboxes and other such items as were to be discovered in the bowels of the house?
  • (January 22, 2010)   I’ve said before and I’ll say again that I attract plumbing problems like tungstophosphates containing zinc ions attract interest in their syntheses. Everywhere I go, water heaters become incontinent, pipes ejaculate, and toilets commit suicide. …[N]ot an hour ago…I heard a noise that can only be described as the love child of gunfire and suction. Need I even add that it was coming from my bathroom?

So, having taken the liberty of indulging in a little urination this evening, I noticed as I was washing my hands that the water coming from the hot water tap was more frigid than Artemis naked in Antarctica in February. I tested the kitchen tap and its water too was more frigid than Artemis naked in Antarctica in February. I used the metaphor twice so that the mental image will never leave your mind.

Determined not to let the lack of hot water get me down, I was having a hot meal and watching me some Coronation Street. It’s getting so intense right now! But as Gail Platt crumbled under the pressure of covering for her missing husband who unbeknownst to her has actually been dead for weeks, I kept hearing this fucky dripping noise that seemed to be coming from the kitchen sink, but I kept checking the tap during terrible Canadian Tire commercials and it was firmly closed, but the dripping continued.

Well, friends, I’m happy to report that after the fifth episode wrapped up I stepped into the bathroom and cracked the case. Sometime while I was at work, my bathroom ceiling had sprouted a boob. A single spontaneously generated breast hung pendulously above the bathtub like a gentler, sexier sword of Damocles, its content leaking steadily from a small hole at its centre. Remarkable. I explored the object gently with my hand, as is my wont, only to discover that about a litre of fluid was encased within the rounded protuberance.

The guest breast had me stressed. Unsure what the situation called for, I lanced it with a screwdriver while laughing hysterically. As a stream of painty water flowed into the bathtub and down my thitherto unwet arm, I resolved for the 9,573,349th time never to procreate.

What the fuck was/is this thing? Anyone have any experience with tits swelling out of nowhere and lactating into their bathtubs? Is my shower ceiling pregnant? If so, who’s the daddy? The sink faucet? The blow dryer? Maury, the medicine cabinet mirror is one million percent sure that baby ain’t his.

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. Joaquin permalink
    December 13, 2010 9:34 am

    Your writing is hilarious, as always. However, there is the detail regarding winter in the Southern hemisphere. “Artemis naked in Antarctica in August” would geographically, and perhaps stylistically, be an improvement.

  2. Meaghan permalink*
    December 13, 2010 11:31 am

    “Colder than a snowman’s cock” is another wording I was tossing around, but the Artemis one is more attractive in every sense. It’s never warm in Antarctica, so the month in which the mental image occurs is more or less immaterial; feel free to substitute whichever time of the year works for you. But February is obviously the ass-kickingest month because it has a weird number of days and I was born in it.

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