I Blasphemed All Over the House

It's not my fault. This evening, my wife made "Heroin Wings," which are some sort of concoction of chemicals spread over chicken wings that is supposed to be very, very, edible. Well, they are. I ate the hell out of 'em. And then I did what boys do. Did a hell of a lot of that, too.

So here I am, sittin' on the couch, watching an eBay auction, bidding on crap I don't even want just 'cause I'm curious as to what it is and no one else bid on the damned thing, and ever so often I'm scratching or belching or maybe farting just a little bit. The bigscreen TeeVee is running the CMT 'Top 100 Love Songs' for about twenty straight hours, and I know I'm gonna have to be something special when the lights go out at the Jones residence, if you catch my drift.

Well, I happened to notice out the corner of my eye that my wife is writing something on a notepad every couple of minutes. Then I notice that it appears to be coinciding with my, er, bodily functions. I belch, she scribbles. I scratch, she writes. I fart, she gets really jiggy with the notepad. Hmmm. What, is she keeping a list?

So, I asked her. She started laughing. "Yeah," she says. "I'm keeping a journal of every time you fart or belch or make that damned cracking noise with your neck. The thing is, I'm running out of notebook paper, and this is only for tonight. You should see the reams of paper I've got upstairs in my office awaiting transcription." She starts laughing hysterically.

"Yes, I'm keeping a journal of ALL THE WEIRD SHIT YOU DO. Like that stupid 'Jesus Action Figure' that your friend Jim sent you. What the hell is that about?"



I tried to explain. You see, my friend Jim is Jewish. Once upon a time, I sent him a deck of Jewish Rabbis trading cards. You know, just trading cards like baseball cards, but with famous Rabbis on them. I thought that they were funny and informative. He tossed 'em in the trash. I guess it was an insult or something. But he got me back. It just took about five years. So he sends me this Jesus Action Figure that has 'gliding action' - it's supposed to walk on water. Well, very shallow water. But whatever. I found it way too damned funny.

But my wife is all fired up now...

"Yes, you played with that damned Jesus Action Figure, and YOU DIDN'T EVEN GO TO CHURCH TODAY! You and your devil-worshipping friends didn't go to church, and you just BLASPHEMED ALL OVER THIS HOUSE! I surprised the whole house didn't just burn right down tonight."

So here I sit on the couch, drinking my IBC Root Beer and watching CMT and kinda watching my eBay auctions. And blaspheming all over the house. Wanna pull my finger? Man, I love those heroin wings.

Hang In There,

Wiggy

Thoughts on a Lousy Weekend

I just joined up with this here on-line organization that is made up of individuals infected with my particular brand of insanity. By this, I refer to my newly-reawakened love of elder stereo equipment. In the olden days, we called ourselves 'audiophiles' without irony, despite the fact that we didn't have Ph D's in acting like condescending jackanapes and we knew in our souls that speaker wire was just that - speaker wire. Thicker was better, certainly, but the copper it was made of didn't have to mined on full moons in countries that had never been at war and smelted by Franciscan nuns who only ate sea salt and whole wheat bread and prayed constantly over the wire and kept it aligned with True North at all times. But that's a whole 'nuther rant.

Anyway, I'm enjoying my visit to their discussion forum, and a few of 'em seem to have discovered ol' Wiggy's sekrit other passion - blogging. Seems they have their own tellers of tales there. Hmmph.

So, it got me to thinking. There was something that happened to me just a few short years ago...it was the worst weekend anyone ever had, and it went something like this...

Once upon a time, your hero was a Road Warrior. Flying about 125,000 miles a year, no lie. I would leave home (Denver Metro area) on Sunday morning early, and get home again sometime on Saturday morning. But I was single, and I didn't much care. Besides, I got to see a lot of the country, and some other countries besides. And it paid well.

Well, ya'll may know that ol' Wigwam is a former Marine. I say 'former' by the way, not 'ex'. One is an 'ex' Marine the day they pour dirt on one's face, not before. One 'joins' the Army, but one 'becomes' a Marine. Anyway, on with the story...

Being it was November 9th in Denver, to be followed by the 10th, which is an important day in the Jarhead Calendar, I decided to get together with a fellow Gyrene for our annual jaunt up to the Marine Corps Memorial in Golden, CO on Saturday when I got home. I stopped at the local package store and picked up a short Jack Daniels, as we always liked to snort one or two and then pour a libation for the Fallen. Seemed appropriate, though Wiggy is really not much of a drinker anymore.

Well, at the appointed time, Wiggy drove his 1996 Chevy Lumina up to Golden, picking up the booze and the brother along with way. We made our way to the Memorial, did our Man Dance, and called it a night. I dropped off my friend at home and continued on my way.

It seems that the Chevy was a bit low on petrol, so I decided to stop and get some, since I had to get up early on Sunday to pack and catch my plane outbound. I hate trying to find an open gas station at 4 in the blessed a.m., if you know what I mean.

So, I pulled into the Texaco station at Louisiana and Kipling for those of you who know where Lakewood, Colorado is. I proceeded to gas up the old Chevy.

Seems like a boring, stupid story so far, right? But wait, there's more.

Seems that something had gone wrong with the automatic gas clicker-offer mechanism. You know, the thing that turns off the gasoline when the tank is full (or more likely, when it's still several bucks from being full). It started spewing gasoline out of the fuel filler nozzle and all over the side of my car. I was busy scraping dead bugs off'n the windshield at the time, so it took me a minute to notice that I was standing in a large pool of gasoline, and it was coming from my car.

Yikes!

I ran around the side of the car, which turned out to be a mistake. Because the gasoline had been puddling longer than I thought, and the soles of my cheap rubber shoes had started to dissolve in the chemical goo in sympathy with their dead dinosaur brethren. In other words, it was slippery. And ol' Wigwam went straight up in the air, and landed right smack on his ass in the gas. And of course, it was still spraying out of the side of my car like a crazy little fountain o' love. A gusher of goodness, it was. My tank runneth over.

I finally managed, after a couple of 'turtle on his back' false starts, to get upright again, holding on to the side of the car for dear life and sliding around like a piece of bacon on a hot griddle. I was drenched in gasoline, and all I could think about was the spark that was sure to come, and ol' Wiggy was going to be a flame-sicle.

So, I struggle to the end of the car, and grasp the gasoline nozzle, which is still spraying gas back out of the tank like Linda Blair in The Excorcist. Argh! The stupid thing won't turn off!

You know, you squeeze the little handle, and it lets go of whatever the tiny mechanism is that keeps the thing running, and it STOPS COMING OUT. Well, it didn't. It just kept a'comin'. I gripped and squoze with all my might, but it would not stop coming out.

I finally decided to remove it from my gas tank. Well, guess what? The nozzle on a gas filler, as most Americans know, is covered with a bit metal coil for some reason. And for some inscrutable, 'God Hates Me' reason, it was now clinging tenaciously to the inside of the filler tube on my car, and would not let go...neither would it stop spewing gasoline. If I hadn't already been soaked to the skin by my pratfall, this would have done it.

I finally gave a mighty tug, and out came the nozzle, still spewing. I aimed it up (having no idea where the hell ELSE to aim it) and it sprayed up like a merry little fountain. I threw it on the ground, and it kept gushing gasoline out as fast as it could. I looked around - everyone was staring at me like *I* was demented, but of course no one was doing anything to help me.

I ran, slipped, ran, over to the entrance to the gas station - there was a large 'Emergency Stop' button there on the wall, which I slapped with vigor. There was a guy standing in the entrance to the gas station starting to light a cigarette. I said "Don't like that cigarette, you fool!"

He looked at me with disdain and replied, "It's my body and I'll do what I want to." MORON! I (was at that time) a smoker, and I had used those very same words in reply to people who suggested that they knew better than me how I should live my life. But this shitstain was about to END both our lives by lighting his cigarette. How he could not tell that I was coated from head to toe in gasoline is beyond me. I smacked the cigarette out of his hand and pushed past him to tell the gas station attendant what had happened and why he now had Lake Gaoline on his front apron.

Well, the booger-eatin' moron who was working there stared at me like I was insane. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. He finally managed, "Well, I can't give you a refund for the gasoline, sir. You'll have to talk to the owner about that."

"You zipperhead! I'm not talking about a refund! I'm trying to tell you that you have a lake of flammable liquid out there getting ready to make this place into a new Skylab, and you need to notify someone about it!"

He stared at me some more. "Well, my boss is on vacation. I don't have authority to call anyone else."

"Good luck on re-entry, turd!" I muttered as I slipped and slided away.

However, having gained access to my car, I realized that someone was going to blow the place sky-high for real. I mean, gas was everywhere. If the Booger-Eatin' Moron was not going to call the Fire Department, I was going to have to do it.

So, I did. I started up my Chevy (gritting my teeth and praying for no spark), drove off the gas-soaked tarmac, and into the dirt lot next door. I then used my cell phone to call the Lakewood Fire Department and advise them of the situation. I heard sirens headed my way almost before I had turned off the cell phone.

Of course, that's when I realized that I had a half-empty bottle of Jack on the seat next to me, and of course I *had* been drinking, even if it had only been a couple of sips in honor of the occasion. Hmmm. Time to beat a retreat.

As I drove off, I automatically reached in my shirt pocket for a cigarette. What a moron *I* am sometimes! I was still soaked in gasoline, I would'a become a human Zippo in about a tenth of a second! Grrr! I gritted my teeth, tossed the ciggy out the window, and drove home.

When I got home, I had to undress in the front door of my apartment; no way was I going to track that gasoline stench all over my carpets. My neighbors were agog, but I gogged right back at 'em - I was in No Mood.

I entered the apartment buck nekkid, whereupon I tossed said clothes in the washer immediately. Of course, I didn't even think of the fire hazard before I started up the wash, but fortunately there was no enormous Kaboom for my stupidity.

However, as I discovered two washes later: a) gasoline doesn't wash out of clothes all that easily, and b) many clothes are made of cotton, but the stitching used to hold them together is made of nylon or some other similar plasticky substance, which disolves in gasolines. I discovered on the third wash that I now possessed a complete set of 'put-together' clothes. Just sew 'em together, kind of like a kit amplifier!

But it was later that night that really took the cake and made my weekend complete.

You see, if you get soaked in gasoline, there is something you should know. Tender tissue does not like it. Like, say, armpits. Oh yes, and crotchal areas. Very bad. Much pain ensues. Ow-wy. So I had to take about eleventy-dozen showers myself, while my clothes finished dissolving in the washing machine.

By the time I got out of the shower NOT stinking of gasoline, I also had a powerful headache. I aimed to remedy this with a well-deserved cigarette and a large cuppa strong coffee. So I brewed up a pot of Ugly Jacob (TM) brand coffee and poured a steaming cup as soon as it was ready. I lit up my smoke and shuffled in my bathrobe from the kitchen to the living room, brew in one hand, smoke in the other.

It was at that exact moment that I got one of those sudden, uncontrollable, sneezes. You know the kind, they come on you like a Kansas Twister; no warning, it's just happening even as you realize it. You can't stop it, you can't stifle it, and they tend to be explosive.

Scientists and doctors say that you can't keep your eyes open while you sneeze. Defies the laws of physics, is what. But I am hear to tell you that I *saw* with my very own eyes, all of the coffee in my super-large mug o' joe rise up vertically in the air as I sneezed. In ballet-like precision, a column of coffee rose directly in the air, right up towards heaven and a waiting chorus. Unfortunately, the ceiling of my living room got in the way, and all that eternity-bound coffee then came splashing right down upon my punkin haid.

You would think that the trip up and back down again might have cooled it a little, but no. Red-hot coffee, roughly the temperature of Chernobyl, right down my neck, coating my back and front equally well.

I stood there, empty cup in hand, coffee still dripping off the ceiling onto my head, and running off my nose onto the carpet, my skin setting off alarms that would be heard in Bangladesh, and all I could do was laugh.

At least I still had my cigarette. I raised it to my lips, and noticed that it had become soaked in the coffee running down my arm. The fire had gone out. And so, dear readers, has my energy to tell this story.

Always Faithful,

Wiggy

On the Quest for Root Beer

You know, some days it just don't pay to get out of bed...

Last night, the Wigster had the craving come upon him.  Ya know, he quit smoking last week.  It's been hard on him - 8 days and counting.  And to stem the craving, he's been giving in to other temptations instead, trying to buy off the part of him that sincerely wants to examine the inside of a pine box by the time ol' Wiggy turns 50.  Oh look, something shiny!

In this case, the reward was Root Beer.

My wife, bless her, knows how to keep the Wigmeister in line.  A little Root Beer in a tall glass with some decent vanilla ice cream, and ol' Wiggy will write you a check for ungodly amounts of money, or give you the keys to his car, or loan you his Fujica G-690 rangefinder camera.  Anything at all, basically.

Root Beer, as all decent people know, is a Good Thing.  Why, if the world would just drink a little more Root Beer, there would be a lot less violence in the world.  Well, that and Foghorn Leghorn cartoons, but Root Beer is pretty good all by itself, ya know.

But, fate kicks ol' Wiggy directly in the snarglies yet again.  There was no Root Beer in the house.  Sunday night, y'all.  Ten p.m.

Now, Wilson, North Carolina is a small town.  The local 24-hour Walgreen's closes at night.  Yes, they're open 24 hours, just not in a row.

So, Wigwam jumps in the Chevy Lumina and chuffs off to the local Convenient Store.  Yes, in North Carolina, they don't have 'Convenience Stores', they have 'Convenient Stores'.  So there you go.  But problem is, not too convenient for the Wigster - no Root Beer.

"We'll have some more on Thursday," the PFY (pimple-faced youth) store clerk announces, apropos of nothing at all.  Of what possible use to the Wigster is that information?  He might just have well have told Wigwam that he'd had the clap twice and ring-around-the-collar since he was twelve.  What did any of that have to do with slaking a serious Root Beer thirst at 10:30 p.m. on a Sunday night in North Carolina?  Nothing, that's what.  So the Wigmeister heads out the door of the not-too-convenient store, into the night, in search of Root Beer.

Now, let's take a moment and talk about Root Beer.  A science and an art, is what it is.  Root Beer goes way back - an original American invention.  In Colonial times, Root Beer was sometimes called 'Small Beer' and it was made from darn near anything - sometimes alcoholic, sometimes not.  It always had certain things in it, however - roots of some sort, such as sassafras or sarsaparilla.  But it is more than that.

Root Beer, for those who love it, is a Special Thing.  It is so much more than a soft drink. Yes, ol' Wiggy loves his Mountain Dew, and will chug a Lemonade on a hot day, but there is something special about Root Beer - the way it plays on the tongue and further back along the palate.  The things it does to yer nose.  Ah, tastes of butter and pepper and some indefinable something...it is magic.

If you love Root Beer, you can already taste it as you read these words - you feel the butter on your tongue, you feel the bubbles at the back of your throat.  Take a drink of water - you'll taste Root Beer.  That's the Holy Alchemy that is Root Beer.

So, back to the story.  Your hero went out into the night, in search of Root Beer, and in particular, one certain brand of it.  IBC brand Root Beer.

Yes, there are other brands.  But Root Beer brands are important to the Con-you-sewer of Root Beer.  And for ol' Wigwam, IBC has got it hands down over any other brand.

IBC comes in a small dark bottle, a bottle of mystery and imagination.  Chill it and open it, the slight escape of gas sighs yer name as the cap comes off.  Ah, the perfect sound, preceding the perfect quaff.

Now, to tell the truth, there is one Root Beer brand that ol' Wiggy once had that was (gasp) BETTER than IBC.  That would be "Sioux City" brand Root Beer.  But that particular brand has been hard to come by since Wigwam abandoned Omaha, Nebraska back in 1987.  So IBC is second-best, but it is a fine, fine, thing nonetheless.  The Wigster will drink "Hires" in a pinch, but much prefers IBC.

However, the Wigster struck out completely.  After a complete tour of the town of Wilson, North Carolina, he only came up with a couple of cans of A&W brand Root Beer from a vending machine in front of the local WalMart.  Hellfire and Damnation.  A nasty brew.

But at least it was Root Beer.  Sometimes, all's well that ends.

Keep Yer Stick on the Ice,

Wiggy

Plan 9 and WMD

This is a quote, ok? Click on the link above to see it in reality. I would not make this up.


Mandatory:

I acknowledge that the software is not intended for use by a government end-user except those in the United States, Canada, the European Union, Australia, Norway, the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Japan, Switzerland, and New Zealand. (government end-users are defined in part 772).

I understand that the cryptographic software is subject to export controls under the Export Administration Regulations.

I understand that I cannot export the software without a license or other authorization.

I will not be using Plan 9 in the creation of weapons of mass destruction to be used by nations other than the US.

Some kind of joke? Nope. Bell Labs. USA. Defense Contractor. Yikes. Scary Monsters. We're in Big Trouble here, folks. But you knew that already, didn't you?

Keep Moving,

Wiggy

The Gubbermint Done Changed Mah Name

It started like this, dear readers…

You see, your ol' pal Wigwam and wife had recently relocated to Wilson, North Carolina from New Mexico. Needing to obtain local documentation, ol' Wiggy went to the local DMV (Department of Motor Vee-Hicles) to obtain same. Brought along his old New Mexico driver's license and a slightly dog-eared Social Security card, don'cha know.

Now, Wigs has had his Social Security card for a long time. Since he was a lad, growing up in the cornfields of Illinois, in fact. He got his Social Security card back when he was about 12 years old, when he got his first 'real' job de-tassling corn in the summer between grades in school. Had to pay taxes, had to file a tax return, therefore, needed a Social Security card. Nowadays, they just issue them at birth, before the young curtain-climber leaves the hospital. Gotta start 'em young.

However, ol' Wigs was 12 years old, and Social Security Card-less. And the town where Wigs lived was San Jose, Illinois - population 400. Not 'San Hosay' you see. No, 'San Joes'. Salute! Anyway, to get back to the story…

Wigs has a middle name, dear readers. It is 'Bryan'. Spelled just like that. But, the local Social Security Administration office, which consisted of the town Magistrate (he was also the Mayor, the librarian, the town clerk and constable, and he ran the yearly Volunteer Fireman's Pancake Breakfast), performed a small typographical error on young Wiggy's Social Security card with a manual Remington typewriter. He spelled 'Bryan' incorrectly - namely, "Bryon". Not "Byron," which would have been equally incorrect but at least it is a name, but "Bryon," which appears not to be a real word or name at all in the English language. And young Wiggy, trusting authority as he did (he would learn, dear readers, he would learn), chose not to say anything about yon typo.

Years went by, and the typo really never mattered. Wigs was able to join the military, get married, divorced, married again, buy cars and a house and so on, and never did he have a problem with the errant spelling of his middle name on his Social Security card. Nobody cared, it didn't matter, it was irrelevant.

Then 9/11 happened, and the world changed.

No longer was a birth certificate an acceptable form of identification. No longer was a DD-214 (military discharge) proof of one's ID. No baptismal certificates, voter registration cards, not even the vaunted US Passport were considered to be acceptable. The only 'real' form of acceptable ID as a 'source document' became the once-lowly Social Security card.

And Wigwam's had a typo in it. Of course, it also says, in big, bold, letters:

"FOR SOCIAL SECURITY AND TAX PURPOSES - NOT FOR IDENTIFICATION."

But to hell with that, eh, readers? It is now the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM of ID. The 'tabula testimonium'. A 'National Identification Card', so to speak. Prima Facie evidence. Welcome to the Occupation.

Can you guess the rest, dear readers? Perhaps, but there is more.

Yes, it is true - the State of North Carolina insisted on issuing a driver's license to ol' Wiggy that included the misspelled middle name of "Bryon" instead of 'Bryan'. They listened to Wigwam's explanation, they accepted it as likely true, but they were required to follow the prime form of ID - the Social Security card, complete with typographical error.

So, Wigwam called the Social Security Administration in Wilson, North Carolina. They suggested that Wigwam would have to fill out a Form SS-5, "Application for a Social Security Card" which is the type of document used when, for example, a woman gets married and changes her name. However, Wigwam informed them that he did not need to change his name, he just needed to correct a typographical error. Ah. There was no procedure for that. There are no typographical errors. Whatever Wiggy's aged and worn Social Security card says his name is, that's indeed what it is - legally, finally, and forever.

Wiggy was a bit confused. How, then, can it be changed? That's easy, replied the Social Security wonk. Get a lawyer, go to the courthouse, and change your name from the misspelling to the correct spelling. Simple.

WHAT?!?

Wigwam has to CHANGE HIS NAME from a typo, which has somehow mysteriously become his legal name, to the name he was born with? How, pray tell, did it get changed to the misspelling in the first place? How did the Social Security Administration override Wigwam's parents, who named their little boy, unknowing that the Social Security Administration reserved the right and privilege to change it however they saw fit? What country is this? Where are we, on the moon? Who the hell is in charge of this basket of shit?

The Social Security Administration is staffed with complete morons.

Well, the end of this story is that Wigwam now has a North Carolina Driver's License with a misspelled middle name. And the only way to fix it is to get a fixed Social Security card first. And the only way to do that is to change his name from what it never was to what his parents named him.

Ah, nuts.

Keep your stick on the ice!

Wiggy

What kind of regatta was it?

Well, it started like this.

The wife and I were about to buy a house.  Our first house.  And it was nerve-wracking, let me tell you.

I'll leave out the part about how we came to be looking for a house in the first place, or how we worried about ol' Wiggy's credit on whether or note we could even get financed to buy a house.  I'll even leave out the trials and hassles that preceded our getting the point where we were about to close on our new home.  Let's just focus in on one shining moment in time; one precise division of time that shall forever remain etched in my memory as a horrific incident I like to call "The Floating Turd Regatta."

The day was a Thursday.  Our mortgage was due to close on the following Friday at one p.m.  For anyone who has never been to a 'closing', it is one of those peculiar institutions that you just knew were invented strictly by lawyers for their own amusement.  You and your realtor and your lawyer go to a lawyer's office where you meet with the sellers and their realtor and their seller, and you all bring certified checks to make the lawyers and realtors happy, and the buyer and seller leave feeling, if not raped, at least severely molested.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh yes, the day before the close.  My wife and I were scheduled to take a 'walk-through' of the house, since the current owners had cleared out their stuff and it was sitting empty.  This was to ensure that the sellers had not suddenly taken the notion that the floors were part of their furniture and therefore should go with them, and so on.  You get the idea.

Well, your ol' pal Wiggy got off work at about 5 p.m. on that fateful evening.  We were to meet our realtor at 7 p.m. to do the walk-through.  So, about 5:30 or so, we headed over to the local "Golden Corral" restaurant to have some dinner.

You ever been to a Golden Corral?  Well, if not, you might be missing out.  Golden Corral is a chain of buffet restaurants, whose gimmick is that they prepare and serve steak your way right on the grill at the buffet table.  The rest of it is pretty standard  buffet fare.  You pay a flat fee, you get a couple of plates and some drinks, and you and your wife take turns raiding the buffet until you're too full or too embarrassed to go on.  It's fast and it's cheap, and occasionally it's good.  So there you go.

So, here we are the Golden Corral.  Normally, I just go for one plate - maybe a second plate for a little bit of desert afterwards, some pie or something.  That's 'normally.'  But in this case, I had several things working against me.  First, your ol pal Wiggy was nervous.  Yep, Wigs never bought no house before, and that's a tremendous amount of stress.  Second, Wigs has time to kill before the 'walk through'.  That's a bad combination folks, especially at an all-you-can-eat buffet.  Let me repeat: that's a BAD combination at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

What happens?  Well, the obvious, of course.  Wiggy eats.  Then Wiggy goes back for seconds.  Then ol' Wiggy checks his watch, sees that he still has a lot of time to kill, and goes back for thirds.  Then he has himself some desert.  Finally, it's time to go over and see the realtor and take the stroll through the house.  I know the suspense is killing you.  Hang on.

My wife and I got to the house, met with the realtor.  She opened the door for us and proceeded us into the house.  Now, let me take a moment and tell you about this house. You see, the house we were buying is old.  Like built in 1923.  A bungalow of a certain age.  Wood floors.  High ceilings.  Arts-and-Crafts styles.  You get the idea.  2800 square feet, of which about 50 square feet of it was sub-divided into two bathrooms - upstairs and downstairs.  And having eaten so much dinner, and being so tense and nervous, well...nature intervened.  Your ol pal Wigwam had to answer the call.

I instructed the realtor and my loving wife to go inspect the upstairs of the dwelling, while I inspected the inside of the downstairs loo.  Yes.  A very thorough inspection indeed.  Thank goodness that the previous owners had left some toilet paper behind.  Bless them.

I settled down, um, well just to settle down, alright?  You know what happened next.  And it did.  In great quantity.  Thankfully, it was soon over.

Ah, but fate had a kick in the snarglies in store for your hero.  When your ol' buddy Wiggy pressed the flush, it did not.  Or rather, it tried.  But it failed, and heavy localized flooding ensued.  Quickly.

And of course, this was an essentially empty house.  No plungers, no towels, no anything to staunch a flood, to hold back the rain.  Nada.  And worse - this house was not yet even ours.  We had not yet signed the papers, not yet pledged our lives and those of our friends and relatives to some unholy bank in Iowa for all eternity.  No, this was someone else's house I had just perpetrated this foul deed inside.

I called for my wife.  "WIFE!!!"

She came quickly - I did not engage in banter.  I demanded that she depart instantly for yon shopping center, thereupon to purchase a plunger and paper towels, and to return forthwith.

My wife.  Bless her!  She knows the Wigmeister, she knows him well.  She knows what evil things lurk in his bowels, and what must have happened.  She immediately grabbed her car keys and headed for the front door at maximum velocity, trailing one confused realtor in her wake.  I was left to try to find the water valve to turn off the flood that would not end, my own private Idaho in the bathroom of a stranger's house, my Floating Turd Regatta.

In the end, all was well.  My wife returned, I plunged.  I mopped and cleaned and then I cleaned myself up as well.  We departed, having hidden the evidence of my shocking crime.  The realtor, since clued, was giggling in mirth - undoubtedly your ol' pal Wigwam will become the stuff of legends in her drunken nights hanging out with fellow realtors - "Let me tell you about this client I had once who was SO NERVOUS, he..."  The excitement, however, was over.

We left soon after that.  The next morning, we got up early, went to the bank, got a cashier's check, and drove to the close.  We signed a tall stack of papers, were given some keys, and now we own that house, wherein I held the first regatta.  We hope it is not an annual event.

Keep Smilin'

Wigwam Jones