Of Human Bondage (To Human Toilets)

“I need to tell you something, and I know this might sound a bit disturbing (pause) but it’s very possible that the prior owner of this condo replaced her old toilet with a refurbished one.”
–realtor, phone conversation prior to closing, 2003

Although common sense was never assumed to be widespread, common courtesy, its more easily learned cousin, requires little in the way of intelligence. When applied to the real estate market, if a sensible person were to knowingly list their house with a broken toilet, they might arrange for a replacement (or at very least, a reduction in price) as a condition of sale. And no, in a quest for that porcelain proxy, trolling white trash yard sales or ghetto fabulous scrap heaps – those venues of toothless impropriety – is never an acceptable solution. Said differently, risking one’s life while eluding dangerous simpletons (whether rabid junkyard managers or rabid armies of redneck inbreds), does not trump a Home Depot visit, despite perceived cash savings.

While “pre-owned” might be a cute moniker to slap on an older Lexus, when applied to crappers the term references (at worst) vindictiveness, or (at best) mental retardation on behalf of the seller. After all, I’m fairly sure that Jim Bob didn’t institute a twelve point inspection before drop kicking his thunderbox to the curb after deeming it unworthy of his own ass. And if this unflushable atrocity was doomed to lie sideways amongst empty boxes of Meister Brau while neighborhood hooligans disgraced it in a series of post-midnight, performance art shows, then no amount of refurbishing would allow me to comfortably drop drawer in its dishonored presence. Even if an industry-sanctioned check did exist, the notion of some obese bowl czar kicking the proverbial tires – ottoman in tow – after gorging himself on a magnum of beans raises the comfort level nary a few notches. Nobody wants a construction-grade Port-o-Potty nailed crudely into their bedroom closet as a “seller’s compromise,” and nobody wants a past-prime john languishing sadly in their loo-to-be, regardless of how proud it made somebody’s daddy feel thirty years ago.
The slovenly loon who unloaded her ramshackle condo upon me and my wife was a few flushes short of sane (see “My Mortgage Can Beat Up Your Mortgage” from April 27). And while her two bathroom unit claimed only one working toilet, she assured her realtor of a replacement fixture. Lest you view me as spoiled, I wasn’t expecting a reclinable, cheek warming, bidet equipped Japanese model that might or might not brew coffee, toast bread, or auto fellate. Rather, a seat and a tank would suffice. After all, my trips to the pool are quick and efficient; no spa-like half hour escapades or magazine perusal necessary. What I received, however, was a bargain basement low-boy which had seen the derriere prints of many a man since the Carter presidency. On the plus side, I suppose I was lucky she hadn’t left me with an upper-decker, that defiantly hard to locate floater and the plumbing equivalent of a double middle finger flip.

Nevertheless, when a tiny perfume bottle dove squarely onto the tank – creating a hairline fracture-cum-chasm which snaked angularly and converted my bathroom into an Old Faithful mock-up – I was secretly elated. David, smaller than a church mouse, so quietly unassuming in his perfume holding perch above the towel rack, had finally toppled Goliath, the menacing juggernaut of unwiped asses and thoughtless prior owners. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I was free at last. And boy, was it liberating knowing that my shiny new throne was one butt crack away from installation.

Regarding disposal (for those not intimately involved with their commodes), there exists no way to physically transport an unboxed toilet from point A to point B without looking like a maladroit lummox; especially if point A is a second floor condo, and point B is the communal garbage shed, located at the bottom of a steep incline. That said, if one believed himself to be a conquering hero, freed from the yoke of used toilet bondage, he might happily laugh off unfunny jokes while alternately pulling, dragging, and lifting his potty en route to the dumpster; a leaky trail of backwater its final tears. Whether charitably gifted to some fleabag hostel or sealed with Bondo and refurbished anew, my nemesis had passed on ... possibly to the benefit of oversexed college travelers, or possibly to the chagrin of your new neighbors.

Or possibly, dear reader, to you. And that kind of unknown quantity almost makes diapers look good again.