“Never again,” he whispered to the empty bathroom. “From now on, it’s reconnaissance missions only.”
Glug-GLUG.
He shuffled out, pants still around his ankles, a penguin of shame. He found the plunger under a bag of potting soil, its rubber cup dusty and smelling of forgotten victories. When he got back, the water had receded just enough to give him false hope. He plunged. Once. Twice. Three times with the desperate rhythm of a man trying to resuscitate a dying heart. toilet paper clogging toilet
A geyser of befouled water, mixed with the original offending wad of toilet paper, surged up and over the bowl. It splattered onto the tile, kissed his bare shins, and dripped onto the bathmat. The toilet paper—that specific, shredded, pulpy culprit—lay in the middle of the puddle like a soggy white flag of surrender. “Never again,” he whispered to the empty bathroom
And somewhere in the plumbing, a ghost of a glug echoed back in laughter. He found the plunger under a bag of