I have a problem with my plumbing, and, no, I do not mean that plumbing. Although at my advanced age, I could technically be talking about that plumbing. But I’m not. You don’t need to know the status of my goddamned vayjayjay. I’m talking about plumbing. You know: water issues in my house.
The first problem is that the water pressure in the kitchen sink used to be about as strong as the stream of an 80-year-old with a bowling ball for a prostate. Then the phenomenally gifted maintenance staff at our complex fixed it. Now when we turn on the faucet, water firehoses out with intermittent jackhammer bursts of nuclear power. The sound is especially pleasing.
My bathtub’s pressure, on the other hand, changes with its temperature. I can choose freezing-ass dribbles or a scalding-ass spray. Neither one can rinse the dry off a cotton ball, but clean is so overrated anyway.
Another fabulous feature of my bathroom is the unintended bidet. You know what a bidet is, don’t you? You in the back? No? Has your head been up your ass until now? Maybe if you had a bidet you would know these things because it would have washed your head out of your ass.
That’s right. A bidet is a separate potty-looking thing that shoots a plume of water up your ass so that you don’t have to sully your hands or precious sensibilities with toilet paper like the little people. My father had one installed in his master bath once, and I thought, Oh, how cute. His-and-her toilets for the couple who can’t bear to be apart for even one shitting second. Literally. And then I used the weird looking toilet because I didn’t know it was a bidet, and water shot all up my…wait. I said I wasn’t talking about my goddamned vayjayjay. Nice try.
Anyway, my current toilet has a vicious pressure when it’s flushed. Water blasts out of the front at the speed of light, and I swear I don’t have a single wrinkle in the privates anymore because of the defacto laser treatments. And the shock of an unexpected tepid torpedo of H2O to the pelvis-y area is an extra little wake-up call each morning. It’s difficult to go back to sleep once your loins have been bitch-slapped. Plus, it’s hard to argue with the supreme clean of a sand-blasted genital. Wait. What? Am I talking about my…Dammit.