The situation beneath our bathroom sink has reached DefCon Three.
It began when the slow drain devolved into a very-very-slow drain, the kind of slow that demanded about 10 minutes of rinsing my shavelings away from the side of the sink. This clog clearly meant business, as it was developing organs and a circulatory system. We needed it out, pronto, so my wife went out and bought the Really Caustic Stuff recommended by our hardware guy. She poured it down the sink and within 15 minutes the clog was gone--along with most of the U-pipe. So now my shavelings don't linger in the sink anymore. Instead, they're resting comfortably in the big bucket that sits where the crudbunker used to be.
The crudbunker has a story of its own that begins, as many stories do, with testicles.
On Monday my wife took Alex Rodriguez in to get neutered. (Next week, we'll take the cat! Zing!) While he's healing, the cats can't have any litter in their box. Instead, we apparently have to use shredded newspaper, which absorbs enough but does exactly zero for the stink. Furthermore, whenever Blossom does her business she stays around for about five minutes burying and ripping and hiding any possible evidence that she has pooped. (Because she is a lady, and ladies do not have digestive tracts.)
So now where most people might have a clean, elegant pedestal or a functional vanity, we have a fetid morass of cat effluent and shredded newsprint and caustic water and shavelings that get doused with Febreze every three or four seconds. On the plus side, however, since his namesake is in every paper every damn day of the week, there's a very good chance that Alex Rodriguez will poop on himself.