I was carrying around a portable phone. You know, a phone without a cord. For those of you who were born after 1990, this means there used to be only phones with cords and we didn't get to wander out into the yard with it until it was out of range of the base set. Also there wasn't any cell phones that weren't the size of car batteries. (We used the extra long cord for our phone to torture the cats. Not in the way you think. We'd wait until the cat walked across the cord. Ladedah. Then we'd flip the cord up and the cat would leap straight up into the air and backwards because something strange touched their tummies. It didn't hurt them and it was funny.) Anyway, it was a portable phone.
|This is the phone. It look very innocent,|
doesn't it? However, it has an...agenda.
(Shh. Don't speak too loud. It might hear you.)
|The scene of the crime. One can see how setting the|
phone on the counter was a tactical error.
Or was it really a conspiracy?
We should call Oliver Stone.
(I bet you didn't really want to see my
itty bitty bathroom, but too bad. It's my blog.)
Stage One is shock and denial. I stared down into the commode and furiously screamed, "NO, I did NOT just do that! No, it couldn't possibly be happening! No! No! NO!!!" I pulled out large hanks of hair and contemplated running off to become a Buddhist monk or maybe a stunt actor in Hollywood.
|This isn't about Stage 1 but I thought it was funny.|
|This doesn't have anything to do with Stage 2|
but I couldn't help myself.
Stage Four is depression. "Oh, I'm so upset that I knocked the portable phone into the crapper. Why did I bring the phone into the bathroom? I think I'll go hide my head under the blankets in the bathroom and pretend that I suddenly went into a coma." I bowed my head sadly. Oh, woe is me. Horrid, wretched depression over the stupid phone falling into the porcelain throne.
|Running with a theme here.|
Stage Five is the upward turn. "OH, fuck it. I'm fishing the goddamn thing out." So I did, taking immediate action and not allowing myself to hesitate. If the toilet hadn't been previously flushed, that phone would STILL be in there to this day. Nuh-uh, there was no way I was going in after the phone if the privy was still full of you-know-what. Hell, it was bad enough as it was by association. Don't get me going on the germs and crap that come out of the amenity. Or off the phone for that matter. Double yuck.
Stage Seven is acceptance and hope. So I waited patiently for several hours. Then I went to test out the phone. It was the moment. I pushed the button on it. It made a sound like a man whose weewee was caught in an industrial sized zipper. (I'm told this is a baaaaaad sound. I'm also told that this sound can make other men's testicles re-ascend into their pelvic cavities.) It whorped loudly and then farted. (I swear!) And...I got a dial tone.
The angels began to sing somewhere. (I had left the television on and a religious show had come on.)