The wire hanger was his last stand. He straightened it, took a deep breath, and plunged his arm into the abyss. The sensation was warm. And wrong. He fished around, trying to break up the monolithic deposit, but it was like trying to stab a stone with a toothpick.
Twenty minutes later, Kevin sat on the edge of the bathtub, defeated. The bathroom floor was a swamp. The cute duck plunger floated mournfully. And in the bowl, the Great Logjam remained, a monument to poor life choices.
“How much poop, Kevin?”
Kevin looked at the bowl. At the floating duck. At his brown-stained arm. He took a deep breath and told the truth.
He grabbed the plunger. Not the good, heavy-duty one with the flange—that was under the sink behind the bleach he was afraid to touch. No, he had the decorative plunger. The one shaped like a cute duck. It was useless. The duck’s beak made a sad squeak against the surface of the brown water, accomplishing nothing. toilet stopped up with poop
Panic set in. Kevin did what any 24-year-old man living alone would do: he called his mother.
“Mom, the toilet’s stopped up,” he said, his voice cracking. The wire hanger was his last stand
This was a mistake. The water surged, crested, and then—with the finality of a judge’s gavel—began its slow, inevitable creep toward the rim.