The Bathroom Conspiracy

I spent this Friday evening cleaning my bathroom. I know, what a way to spend a night but even though as a single male I can live in a fair amount of my own dirt, even I have limits. When the hair in the shower drain compiles so high it creates a new life form who slowly gains sentience, it might be time to clean.

When the dirt on the shower curtain hardens and breaks off in chunks and you examine it only to find gold flakes embedded inside, it’s probably time for some soap and water.

When you buy a toilet brush made from tungsten filaments and after two hours of scrubbing using an industrial mining drill to turn the brush, you still can’t get the toilet bowl clean, you may have waited too long to clean the bathroom.

When you find out friends are telling people the most terrifying moment of the lives was using your bathroom and that the visions of gargoyles eating their face took a month to subside, that is definitely a sign you have waited too long to clean.

So I spent my Friday evening scrubbing my shower and toilet, sweeping and mopping the floor and washing down the sink and counter tops. I should be good until next December. Kidding. I’ll probably do it early, maybe around Thanksgiving.

Circling the Drain

Being a single guy I don’t do a lot of cleaning. I’ll do the dishes when I’ve run out of plates to heat up my blood sausage hot pockets and ever since I found a family of Ethiopian refugees living under a pile of newspapers in my living room, I’m more diligent about picking up trash from the floor. Other than that I’m like most men in that we can live in a certain amount of our own dirt and thrive, growing taller and more self-assured.

The bathroom is the room in the house that no one wants to clean, even neat freaks. I avoid it like Grateful Dead heads avoid showering. However, I’ve seen some signs lately that its time to clean.

I walked in the other day and found a message written on my mirror in toothpaste. Turns out the mold spores on the bottom of my shower curtain have been their so long they have evolved into new silicon-based sentient beings and they wanted to open up diplomatic negotiations with me. Apparently every morning when I take a shower I wipe out half their population, the interstate highway system and several layers of infrastructure.

But before I could take a United Nations tour of my bath tub, I heard a slurping sound that made me turn toward the sink. I watched with fascination and revulsion as the filmy layer of old soap, water, skin dirt and beard clippings from the edge of the sink had coalesced into a globulous creature resembling a BP executive. It tore its suction cup-like body away from the counter top, leaping at me with a ferocity matched only by movie critics reviewing a Robin Williams film. As it flew through the air it shouted, in a voice reminiscent of Carl Castle from NPR radio, “I’m alive! I’m alive!”

I sidestepped the beast, tripping over the toilet and slamming into the wall. The blob foresaw its impending doom and wailed “Remember me my Holy creator!” before landing in the bathtub right on top of the newly rebuilt mold home world. When it hit, the thing split apart covering my tub in a gooey paste.

From the floor I could hear the mold people crying out; their emergency vehicles speeding to the manifold scenes of destruction. Their satellite, which hovered just above my showerhead, changed position as they broadcast a hastily organized press conference where the president called for calm before being swept away to an undisclosed location by the secret service. The mold people celebrities quickly gathered in the ruins of the opera house for a benefit concert/telethon while the conservative commentators blamed liberal border control policies.

I picked myself up off the floor and decided to take the easy way out. I turned the handle marked H. Hot water rushed out of the showerhead, washing everything down the drain. My cleaning is done for another 6 months.