How many lesbians does it take...
On Tuesday morning while donning my corporate drag, as I whipped out a necklace from my jewelry box it caught on one of the fancy pearl and diamond earrings my dad had given me for Christmas. The earring was eager to explore the putrid depths of the drain, gone almost instantly with a self-satisfied and sadistic *clink* as it settled gleefully into its new home.
By Thursday, finally disgusted by having to brush my teeth in the kitchen, it was time to take action. And by action I mean catalyzing a series of events nearly boundless in scope and monumental in stupidity. As a typical lesbian (femme though I may be) I imprudently decided that my queer badge qualified me to take apart the pipe underneath the sink. Now, everyone knows that lesbians are celebrated for their prowess with tools and plumbing, and any other activity that might cause butt crack to show when they bend over. A simple act of plumbing merely to retrieve something certainly could not be cause for distress.
Like any well-equipped dyke, I opened up my vast toolbox and got out the largest pair of adjustable pliers I owned and headed to the bathroom.
I must digress here to convey to you that my bathroom is roughly the size of a breadbox. With the bread in it. By the time I had removed most of the assorted bottles and boxes from the cupboard under the sink, there was very little room left to maneuver. I was surrounded on all sides with the contents of the cupboard and faced into it with a determined lesbian gaze.
As I delicately twisted the pipe's attachment to the bottom of the sink, a waft of sulfurous air crept from the cupboard like a portent of certain doom. However, the pipe seemed to be unscrewing easily enough, so I continued more confidently. Slowly the entire plastic pipe began to twist to the left, and the smell increased to a tangible density. Then, with a massive jolt, the pipe broke free – not from the sink where I had been unscrewing, but from the wall.
I screamed like a young boy being ineptly castrated with a chopstick as a mammoth amount of filthy pipe spew drenched the entire right side of my body. The smell can only be quantified as akin to what a half-gutted hobo crack whore might vomit up after eating a carton of rotten eggs. The texture was like the worst diarrhea you have ever experienced - complete with gray chunks like undigested corn. Stomach and lungs heaving, I struggled to regain control of my gag reflex and my left kidney, which felt as if it were trying to forcibly escape through my anus.
Always one to do the logical thing, I screamed again, tore off my shirt and did a maniacal dance that no doubt appeared more like an epileptic fit due to the aforementioned bread box proportions of the room. The bowl I had set out to collect water contained roughly 1/1000 of the pipe spew it was intended to catch, with the rest being splattered over a generous portion of my bathroom like satanic confetti. I immediately called my friend Biker Dyke in order to find out what to do next.
On the phone in between fits of laughter punctuated by gagging on my end, I continued to remove the pipe, making the foolhardy assumption that it was now devoid of any remaining spew. Biker Dyke had assured me earlier that this would be a simple process, and was now struggling to hold back laughter long enough to make sense of my description of what had happened. As the pipe came completely free from the sink, another gush of spew was released into my waiting lap. I screamed and the cell phone fell the short distance to the floor, extricating its battery in the process.
Unable to reach Biker Dyke after reconnecting my phone and retrieving my earring, I called Italian Dyke. “You called the wrong lesbian,” she said, after deciphering that my fits of hysteria had something to do with plumbing. Luckily, she called back a few minutes later saying that her friend Fix-it Dyke would be willing to come over with her and look at it since they were on their way home from work. I did a brief dance of glee and then another one of panic as I realized that I had just invited people into an apartment that now smelled like a sewage treatment facility.
By the time they had arrived, I was clothed and had wiped up most of the original spew. Fix-it Dyke immediately went to work with great determination and admirable confidence. Her first effort was rewarded with a mad eruption of water from the confluences of the pipe upon first testing. Not to be deterred, she pulled the pipe off and dumped the water in the sink. Of course when you dump water in the sink after removing the drain pipe… wet lap. And not of the same variety that we lesbians prefer when it comes to wet laps. Italian Dyke and I stared on stupidly as this happened, merely standing there like asshats while Fix-it Dyke shrugged and resumed wrestling with the pipe, my floor now resembling a breadbox-sized version of Lake Travis. Finally, the pipe deigned to cooperate, grudgingly resuming its former position as carrier of foul spew. There were many cries of jubilation and happiness, and I believe I now owe Fix-it Dyke baked goods, or more likely, sex.
So how many lesbians does it take to perform a simple act of plumbing?
It takes four, my friends. It takes four.
this is in or around my bathroom