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Son of Showerbreast (alternate title: You Have Got to Be Motherfucking Kidding Me)

February 25, 2011

Oh blessed virgin mother of precious Jesus God Mary in sweet heaven above.

So back in December of ought-ten I had a certain episode involving my bathroom ceiling, a pipe leak of the least pornographic sort, and a landlord being called in to handle the problem. Well, he cut a hole in my ceiling, did something, sealed the hole back up, and then sanded or whatever the drywall. This all happened over a period of weeks and finally wound down around about February 20, i.e. this past Sabbath.

Friends, what do you think I beheld half an hour ago upon entering my bathroom to enjoy what is known among the gentry as “a round of urination”?

Yeah. The Showerbreast has returned. Hallefuckinglujah. Except this time it’s more like a Showercock, in terms of its proportions. And it’s no longer over my shower but kind of between the shower and the toilet, so as I’m taking a pee, the Showercock will be peeing on me. Art imitates life?

I don’t know why I dared to believe that this situation had finally come to an end. Maybe because the landlord assured me that it had, or maybe because there had been no sign of leakage all through the long process of his chopping up and fixing and sanding the drywall. (More like wetwall, am I right?) But I should have known better than to engage in the hubris of thinking my life could be free from absurd plumbing calamities for any length of time. Gnothi seauton, said the wise ancients. I subscribe to this maxim so fervently that I often consider having it etched into my aging flesh in an unobtrusive place in a nice colour, like a really dark blue for example. And yet I continually fail to live by it. I blithely breathe a sigh of relief and go back to crafting one of my ludicriously overdetailed lesson plans with the most adorable homemade flashcards, just because some guy tells me my ceiling is fixed and I won’t have that problem anymore and I never should have had it in the first place and the whole thing was so weird and unexplainable because he had just redone the bathroom and had a plumber check all the pipes and it was all perfectly good and fine before I moved in.

Zeus and all you guys up there, if you’re reading this, and why wouldn’t you be, I pledge to truly know myself from this day forward. I will never, ever again make positive assumptions about the state of my plumbing. My apartment’s plumbing, I mean. Nice save.

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