The Great Toilet Flood of 2009`

Today, our toilet flooded everywhere as I was standing helplessly in the bathroom, totally in the nude. After panicking like a little girl, I turned off the water, called Russell, and got his voicemail.

Then the toilet freaked out a second time, so instead of calling a plumber or any of our five million retired neighbors — gossiping and drinking their mid-morning cocktails in one another’s garages — I ran to Facebook Chat and summoned Amanda, Russell’s co-worker.

There can’t be anything more ridiculous than instant messaging someone about how your toilet is out-of-control. If Hanna-Barbera had to transcribe my chat with Amanda for a television audience, it would’ve looked just like this:

If you have to have a catastrophe, you should at least find the best way to deal with it. I’m all for bad animation and monotone vocals any day of the week.

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This is the beginning. It doesn’t matter how everything turns out in the end because the biggest battle has already been fought and won, and nobody has to whisper anymore:

In six weeks, I raked up almost six thousand individual hits from all over the country on one article, in another piddly blog, about how my union president arrogantly, or ignorantly, used our dues to fund anti-union activities. He can kill me at this point, and the truth — all of it — still prevails. Good enough for me.

I’ll let Ministry handle the rest of this: