“We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.”-- Tennessee Williams, “Camino Real,” 1953
I’m listening to K.D. Lang’s version of Joni Mitchell’s “Help Me,” so beautiful, such a voice. George Carlin died. First saw him on Ed Sullivan as the Hippy Dippy weatherman. Here was a weatherman that knew which way the wind blew. “There’s a line of thunderstorms moving in from the north; but there’s also a line of Russian ICBMs moving in, so don’t sweat the thunderstorms.” Brad Mehldau? If you like cool, jazz piano, he’s it. Now Dylan. “Desolation Row” from “No Direction Home,” it’s 10+ minutes long.
How about an urban legend from Mackinaw Island? Christopher Reeve’s horrible accident is said to be the result of an Indian curse placed upon him for defying the island’s rule against using motor vehicles. He drove his MG around and pissed off the mighty Indian God, Goralinac. It’s no accident he was stuck down riding a horse, Goralinac’s favorite mode of transport. “She ran calling Wildfire, she ran calling Wildfire. By the dark of the moon I planted, but there came an early snow…. “ I know, it’s silly to sprinkle in musical references (It’s what I’m listening to as I write. My daughter Sarah always loved “Wildfire”). So, yep, Christopher Reeve, victim of an ancient Ojibwa Fatwa (or was it Osage?). Now he’s wheeling around the happy hospice ground in the sky. Ah, the smell of horseshit, fudge, and Superman’s exhaust, how heavenly. I read the news today, oh boy. About a lucky man who made the grade. And though the news was rather sad, well I just had to laugh, I saw the photograph.”
“Also, please be advised that cleaning of the sanitary sewers may cause minor agitation of the sewer system due to the use of hydraulically propelled and high-velocity wash equipment. Precautions will be taken to ensure that operations will not cause wash water to back up in your private service lead connected to the Township sewer system. However, as an extra precaution, the Township requests that you consider keeping your household toilet seat covers closed when not in use during the work day.”
Now I find this letter! I guess that’s a good thing, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten my settlement from the Township. Had I read the notice earlier, I might not have used Brigitte’s toilet on that fateful day in May (was she trying to Claus von Bulow me?). I suppose we’ll never know.
What I can say with some certainty is that it was she who entered me in the contest. I suspect she knew the combination of my post-jalapeno-eating-contest victory celebration and the Township's use of excessive sewer force could work to her advantage. They don’t call her the Mata Hari of Canton for nothing. What she couldn’t know was that her plan would back fire (excuse the pun). She knew it was my habit to take my morning constitutional precisely between 8:24 and 9:06. I can’t prove it, but I think she alerted an admiring sanitation worker via her cell phone.
So, as I was settling down with my Weekly Standard and battery-operated-nose-hair clipper, septic boy lets go with the hydraulically pressured, high-velocity butt-washer. Aside from suffering a torn anal hypostula and sprained colon, by some miracle, I escaped the horrible fate of another unsuspecting resident: a fatal retocillation and disembowelment of the sub diaphragmatic abdomen.
Why was I spared, you ask? Simple. At the same moment that the full fury of the sewer cleaner’s wrath spewed forth, I unleashed what can only be described as a once in a lifetime super-sphincter-spasm. You’ve heard the old physics conundrum, what happens when an immovable object meets an irresistible force? It was sorta, kinda like that.
After the Township doctors examined my case (and my butt), the Grand Poobah Township Commissioner authorized a $1250 payment as recompense for my distress, which we subsequently lost in two casino visits.
THE END
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