The following is the trilogy of tragedy which occurred on a Thursday. It is a scene right out of a Hollywood horror flick. I strongly suggest you make some popcorn, dim the lights and snuggle a loved one.

Part One: I hauled my behind out of bed and poured a cup of black coffee which is apropos since the day was about to become jour noir. I sauntered back to my bedroom after feeding my cat, sat on the edge of the bed and sipped my java. Once the caffeine coursed through my bloodstream I moseyed into the bathroom.

I ran the electric toothbrush over my chops and thought the appliance was making an odd noise. I turned it off and listened. There was the sound of gurgling, moaning and groaning. Was my

sink possessed? I lowered my ear and discovered the evil echo was indeed coming from the drain. I ran the water again and pushed and pulled on the plug mechanism. I dare say that was a mistake.

Seconds later my finger was caught between the plug mechanism and its base. Linda Blair must have been inside the cabinet holding on for dear life as my thoughts turned to someone finally finding me naked with a sore back, a purple hand and my derriere in the air akin to a human bicycle rack. After much cursing, tugging and a few prayers I managed to retrieve my digit. I opened the cabinet but couldn’t see what was wrong. I shrugged. What do I need a plug for anyway?

Part Two: After my walk later that day I checked the kitty litter box in the en suite bathroom. Tuffy had left me a few presents and I flushed them. I tapped the handle and wandered away. However, Ms. Blair had returned as I could hear water hissing. I entered the en suite again to discover the toilet was still

running. I’m not a complete idiot and knew it was most likely a faulty flapper inside the tank.

Struggling to straddle this six foot, three inch frame backwards on the toilet seat, I removed the lid. I turned the water off and dismantled the flapper. After a thorough examination I decided with my plumbing acumen that the flapper was not worn and was probably just resting askew. These new, smaller water-capacity toilets are a royal pain in the… well, you know what I mean and it’s a bad pun. Having such long arms it was difficult to work my fingers into the tank and reassemble the flapper aside from the fact that my legs were now aching and I felt like an over-worked gymnast or a worn-out cowpoke.

Finally, the flapper was back in place but the water still ran. I shrugged. What do I need an en suite toilet for anyway?

Part Three: I ruminated over the sink and the toilet for the remainder of the day and Murphy’s Law, not to mention the old

epigram that bad things come in threes. I did not have to wait long.

I stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. Then I turned on the cold water and pulled the diverter valve. (My apologies for all this technical talk but I am a guy and men like to dazzle you with labels even though we don’t what the hell we’re talking about). It seems the cold water was not working as I began my best impersonation of an East Coast lobster.

Steam quickly filled the bathroom and I heard the fire alarm go off. Tuffy bolted past the door or at least I thought it was him. The apparition was black, furry and moving apace so it could have been Ms. Blair riding her broom. To make matters worse the static from the heat caused the inner shower curtain to wrap me like a gift to a spider on Christmas Day. I was beginning to resemble a used roll of Saran Wrap and needed a plan.

I fought with the cold water tap but it kept spinning. Turning redder by the second I tried to push in the diverter but the water

pressure was too great. So, being of the male upright species it finally donned upon me that I could simply turn off the hot water tap. Scalded, dripping and dejected I knew I was beat and called the plumber.

Epilogue: The sink’s plug was twisted underneath, the en suite toilet pump was broken and the shower tap valve was stripped. It was a triple play trilogy unless you count the dent to my wallet which makes it a quadruple cluster&*$%. Man I hate horror movies.

Written by: Ben Guyatt

Ben Guyatt is a stand-up comedian and a published author. Visit his website at and follow him on Facebook. He also hosts The Ben Guyatt Show every Sunday at 9 pm on AM 900 CHML.

Providing a fresh perspective for Hamilton and Burlington

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