Dear Low-Flow Toilet,
I never thought I could have such passionate feelings for a crapper, but I do. I hate you. I hate every inch of your porcelain frame.
I didn’t know when I bought you that low-flow was actually code for “intermittent water coverage.” That little bit of moisture you let dribble out with each flush doesn’t even cover the entire bowl. There are four quarter-inch rivulets of water that escape down your sides. What good is that? How can a girl perpetuate the myth that women don’t poop if you don’t hide all trace of the evidence?
And heaven forbid a man use you; your bowl ends up looks like a murder scene. That is, if he is lucky. More often than not a visit to you ends with “Where is the plunger?” echoing through the house. If the plunger is AWOL, then we all get to place bets on how many times it will take the nearly overflowing mess to slowly drain so we can reflush, fingers crossed, hoping this time will be the charm. Watching that water rise… and rise… never knowing if it will crest or stop in the nick of time… who needs that kind of stress?? The only thing worse is when it happens at someone else’s house, where they have installed one of your evil cousins.
And why can’t you have some pride and sit up? You’re so low to the ground my knees ache every time sit on you. On those fuzzy evening when I forget you’re not my other, much taller toilet, I end up dropping a foot down onto you, scaring myself to death in the process. Half-drunk and half-asleep is no time to be unexpectedly falling out of the sky. It’s enough to stop your heart.
Yeah, yeah, I know: people shit on you. That is still no excuse to not stand a little taller. You have to stop using that as a crutch.
I suppose I could just clean you more often, but A. I don’t want to, and B. the toilet wand gets blue stuff all over you that your low-flow spit of water can’t rinse. Knowing you, the stupid blue dye in the toilet cleaner was your idea, too, you sadistic little prick.
It’s toilets like you that have people ransacking their grandmother’s homes, stealing their old, powerful commodes. How many times does a poor elderly lady have to break a hip, dropping unceremoniously to the ground where her pink toilet used to be? You should be ashamed.
A few more years turning tricks and I will have enough money to replace you with a Super-Flush 1000 shipped directly from Japan. Then I will have a toilet equipped with bidet, air dryer, sound system, toaster oven, Wii and most importantly — the ability to FLUSH.
That’s right; your short comings have put me on the streets, you bastard.
I hate you, low flow toilet.
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