Loofah Thou Thy Loo - Happy World Toilet Day!

Wouldn't you know it--it's World Toilet Day, and my bog's stopped up. Full of brown water, too, although the two problems aren't related. The brown water's because of all the mud, which is because of all the rain, which is--well, listen to this: we've had so much bloody rain this month, all the reservoirs filled up with mud. The mud got into the city water supply, and by Thursday morning, it was brown showers all round. (Sorry. Can't have World Toilet Day without the World Toilet Humour.)

At any rate, upon discovering the befoulment of the water supply, a horde of hysterical hosers descended upon every gas station, grocery shop, and corner store between Richmond and--and whatever's on the other side of the affected area (White Rock?)--buying up every available drop of clean water. By the time I got my lazy arse down the shops, there wasn't so much as a Perrier to be had. I wandered around for a while, trying my luck at various 7-11-type establishments, but it was always the same:

"..." (That's the sound of me standing before an empty shelf, head cocked in puzzlement.)

"Looking for water?" (That's some snidey wee gas-station attendant, openly reveling in my disappointment.)

"Yeh."

"Hard luck, then. Sold our last bottle Thursday afternoon."

"Any idea where I could get some?"

"Maple Ridge*?"

At any rate, I don't suppose the dirty reservoirs affect World Toilet Day any--unless, of course, you're a dog, and in the habit of drinking from the bowl. The health department has not, to the best of my knowledge, declared the water unfit to shit in.

For my part, in honour of this most auspicious occasion, I'd just like to say--

--(This is a dramatic pause. For effect, you know?)--

--People of the Pacific Northwest, polish your potties! Loofah thy loos. Dust your dunnies, and burnish your bogs. Make that special shitter feel appreciated, this November nineteenth. Let's raise our glasses to nosebags for asses, and sing out a toast to three thousand flushes blue. (I used that stuff once. My toilet leaked, and the dove-grey linoleum surrounding it went a lovely chartreuse. I sent in Mr. Clean, but his union said he was only good for one thousand flushes. Yeah, that was one damage deposit I never saw again.)

Blimey. What does one say, in a toast to one's toilet? I feel rather unequal to the task. Though I use the toilet every day, I can't say as I take much notice of it. Last year, the seat came unstuck. It took me several months to realise it was broken, then another month or two to find someone to fix it. Since I moved in here, that toilet's spent more time broken than it has in one piece. First, it got the most stubborn clog imaginable. You'd've thought I'd flushed a whole llama down there, or a sheep! I was plunging and plunging, and not getting so much as a gurgle. No sooner had I sorted that out, than it started to drip. Next, it was the seat--and now, it's plugged again. I've got to stop putting newspaper down there. Oh, dear--I'm a toilet's nightmare!

A bit of bog-related wisdom: one time, I was sitting on the lid of the toilet, reading a book. My bottom got really cold. So don't sit on the lid without your trousers on. Come to think of it, don't sit on the lid at all. It's hard and cold and uncomfortable, and if you're too heavy, it might even break. You're better off on the sofa.

Oh. And don't buy those disposable toilet brushes they've been advertising on the telly, just lately. Complete waste of money, those. It won't kill you to stick your hand in there for the minute it takes to do a wipe round. You can have a shower right after. If your toilet's so manky it takes more than a quick spray and wipe, you're not cleaning it often enough. Slob.

Well, that's all. Happy World Toilet Day, world. I love you all, except for Steve.

* Or similar far-flung destination--one particularly rotten fellow advised me to try Niagara Falls.