I had been in Australia for two weeks when my roommate invited me to her mom's home out in the country. I was excited to explore the Outback and stay in her mom's 115-year-old farmhouse. But before you assume the worst -- the house did have plumbing and a toilet.
Unfortunately, that toilet was out of order.
All business had to be taken care of in a little "dunny" behind the house. It wasn't exceptionally filthy, but it was the middle of the winter, in a part of the country where the weather can reach near freezing temperatures -- creating hell of a cold toilet seat. Also, the dunny was more than a few yards away from the house, making it necessary to plan your shits.
On the ride to the house, we both wolfed down greasy beef pasties, and when we reached my roommate's mother's house, we ate a huge meal of chicken, gravy and mashed potatoes she had prepared for us. We all had a few beers and by 11:00 I had fallen into a blissful slumber.
I was suddenly awakened a couple hours later by stabbing pains in my lower intestine. I had incurred the wrath of the Gods of Shit and now I was lying on the couch, writhing in agony. I urgently needed to release the floodgates, and mere seconds would cost me irredeemably soiled panties and one rank couch cushion. But I desperately did not want to venture out into the dark and cold to use the dunny.
In fact, I didn't think I could make the walk, anyway. So in my moment of desperation I did something outrageously foolish: I used the broken toilet. I leapt off the couch and frantically hobbled to the bathroom. I plopped down on the seat and released a torrent of simmering tar and broken glass into the defunct bowl. My toes curled and my body shuddered and then soon I was well again.
Although I have no credentials as a plumber, for some reason I felt completely confident that I could make the toilet flush. I pushed the little plastic button (no shiny metal handle) and waited for the relieving sound of chugging water everyone wants to hear when shitting in unfamiliar territory. Nothing happened.
For at least an hour I plunged the toilet and tried to make it flush -- but to no avail. My desperation and arrogance had turned a mere dysfunctioning toilet into a swampy hell. I finally decided to slip back to the couch and hope that no one would bother going in the bathroom until well after I had left.
In the morning my roommate's mom ventured into the bathroom for one reason or another and discovered the monstrosity. It smelled ungodly and wouldn't be going anywhere until someone came to fix the toilet. No one was questioned, but I felt it was assumed I was the guilty party. I guess my horror- and guilt-stricken face gave me away. I never confessed -- it probably wasn't necessary -- and it was a pretty quiet ride home.
-- Chan
