The party was a fun little get-together. A dozen people, good food, drinks were available, and the guests were already splitting into factions as to which DVD to watch. I went down the hall to the bathroom to do what had to be done.

I was in one of my fiber shock-and-awe weeks -- tabbouleh, lentils, and for the past three days, handfuls of starch blockers. Spring was approaching fast, and I had decided to shed some excess poundage. (For those who do not know, starch blockers take all that nasty carb matter from pasta and bread and pancakes and send it down the poop chute. This translates into huge anal accomplishments. So, I was feeling a pressing need.)

I proceeded to do my business, only half registering the fact that the toilet water level didn't look quite right. I barely noticed that the water was a bit high.

I stood up, turned and surveyed my Hershey handiwork. Ah yes, that fullness had given way to a long sliding movement that ended in a satisfying splash. There in the pristine porcelain bowl loomed a solid snakey turd to be proud of. I took in the wonder of my accomplishment for a moment, and then was dragged back to reality by the thought of Amaretto being passed around just one hallway down. So I summoned the flushing forces into being with a metallic cachunk, and turned to go.

With the bubbling background of the toilet doing its work, I tucked in my shirt and zipped up and -- wait a minute! Where was the final slurping sound of success?

I turned to look, and oh my God! There was my brown creation, spinning around and around but not going anywhere!

I looked around for a plunger. Of course, there was none in sight. There never is. I really believe women are allergic to the sight of them.

I checked the vanity under the sink -- no plunger.

By now, the toilet had begun refilling the tank, so the whirlpool had stopped. There was no way I was leaving that huge turd in plain sight for the next visitor. I rummaged noisily through the contents under the sink. Baby powder, first-aid kit, socket wrench, spare Charmin, air freshener. Damn! Nothing useful.

As the toilet wound down and ceased drawing water, I heard a quiet glub glub glub. This particular toilet was definitely suffering from some kind of indigestion -- for now the water level within the bowl was dropping to zero.

I began to sense the bouquet immediately. With no water to keep things submerged, my ode to fiber was now happily perfuming the air. Great, this was all I needed! I slammed the doors closed under the sink and swore a rather dark oath. It was then I spied a yardstick.

Yardstick?

Hmmm. Redecorating? I didn't care. I grabbed the yardstick and bent to the challenge. I skewered my twisted creation and began stuffing it down the toilet opening. I was thinking that maybe if I shoved it back as far as possible, the next flush would take it the rest of the way.

I felt like I was stuffing a sausage casing.

As soon as I had rammed the monster poop as far home as I could, I let the toilet go through its moves once again. Now there came watery belches, burps and bubbles, and as I gazed on in horror, the water level began to rise. I was preparing to throw the guest towels at it if necessary; but then some liquid deity smiled down upon me.

Or so I thought. With a gurgling wheezing sound the likes of which I'd never heard before in my entire life, the ailing toilet began sucking down the bowlful of water. With a mighty galump galump, I just KNEW my troubles were over.

As the tank refilled, I opened the door and was about to leave when I caught that distant gargling sound from within the deepest recesses of the bathroom plumbing. Not again! I fumed. One backward glance confirmed my worst suspicions. My brown beauty was back, whole and unspoiled as an Alaskan landscape.

However, this time, it had company. Peanuts! Styrofoam peanuts!

It slowly dawned on me what must have happened. One of the hosts of this dinner party had a five-year-old nephew. I was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that the little bugger had dumped handfuls of those mailing peanuts down the toilet. Sure enough, my omni-poop was now luxuriating on a small mountain of mailing peanuts--and the stench was growing.

I had, by this time, decided I'd had enough. I walked down the hall and proceeded to rejoin the party.

II.

Somebody had decided on Executive Decision with Kurt Russell, which I didn't mind seeing again.

About fifteen minutes into the movie, a tall fellow in black jeans quietly exited the living room to make use of the facilities. I was having very mixed emotions at that point. What would he do? What would he say? What would I say? Should I keep silent? Play dumb?

One of the girls wandered over to my sofa, ready to engage in conversation. I was keeping tabs on the time, waiting for Mr. Black Jeans to return. I couldn't wait. Twelve minutes. It was a good sign that he was dealing with the defiant doo. So be it. Let him chop it up or something.

Another three minutes went by. By this time, I was starting to sweat. Finally, he emerged from down the hall, sporting a perfect poker face. "Wonderful," I thought.

The movie continued to move along, with Steven Segall being sucked out of the plane. Three of us actually applauded. It was then that Karen, one of our hosts, excused herself and bouncily exited the room. "Oh, this is gonna be good," I mused.

Thirty seconds later, there erupted a shriek from the south end of the house. Karen came running down the hall, red-faced and gesticulating wildly.

"Where's the plunger?" she yelled. "Come look at this! Something horrible is in the bathroom!"

That tore it. Our mid-tempo little party mutated at that moment into a procession of curiosity seekers. Oh, fantastic!

As we all went down the hall, the invading aroma greeted us. "Oh, Jesus Christ!..." "What is that?" "Who did this?" "Bloody hell!" Everyone was voicing his or her shock at this point.

Karen turned to Mr. Black Jeans, who had a name after all. "Troy, what are those things in the toilet?" she wanted to know.

Troy scratched his five o'clock shadow and said, "Looks like shipping peanuts. We use thousands of them at work."

While the two of them debated just how mailing peanuts got into the plumbing, somebody came running from the laundry room with a plunger.

"I'll put an end to this," Rob stated with authority. He shared the townhouse with Karen, and was taking charge. He shooed everyone away, raising his voice to let us all know that we had permission to use the second bathroom -- a full bath that was connected to the master bedroom.

Karen was madly running into her master bedroom to tidy up -- it seems she'd not considered the possibility of her partying guests needing to parade through there. As we all filed down the hall to return to the movie, I heard Rob manhandling the plunger, saying something like, "I'll put an end to this sucker!" He couldn't have been more wrong.

III.

"Will no one rid me of this meddlesome poop?"
-- Henry II

Had a jigsaw puzzle of events not conspired so, there would not be a part three to this story. However, several factors had come together to create a domestic disaster most foul.

First off, there were two bathrooms on one floor. Had one of them been upstairs, the evening would not have ended in such monstrous embarrassment.

Secondly, unknown to any of us at the time, little Josh, the mischievous nephew, had found great fun in flushing down an entire VCR-size box of mailing peanuts!

And finally (it would come to light much later), the original plumbing for this house and also those of its neighbors had been installed using the wrong kind of pipes.

After the movie came the cheesecake. This succeeded in replenishing everybody, at once restoring the cheery atmosphere. As the guys fought over the last piece of dessert, the girls were upending mugs of gourmet tea or Tanzanian Peaberry Coffee.

Rob had marched forth from the bathroom, proudly waving the plunger and proclaiming that he had vanquished the brown beast. He was going to get a snake tomorrow and clean out the plumbing, just to be safe. As the coffee and tea kicked in, folks started filing in and out, seeking relief of the master bath. Karen was half-sleepily loading the dishwasher while still chatting away with her friends.

All of this continued on for the next half hour, until, much like earlier that evening, a scream emanated from down the hall. One of the girls, I believe her name was Shelley, came running from the bedroom, half wrapped in a bath towel, water dripping from her smart little pants suit.

"It just rose up and got me!" she shrieked. Rob got this unfathomable look on his face.

"What happened?" he demanded to know.

"I didn't even ... get to flush it! It got all over me and wet my... my bottom! My clothes are ruined!"

With that, three of us took off for the master bath. She was right. It was still going on.

"I don't understand this, the tank is off. Where is all this water coming from?" Rob needed to know.

As the water went from clear to brown, soapsuds began piling upon the surface. I smelled the lemon and knew at once. "Oh shit, that's detergent." I answered.

"The dishwasher!" Karen screamed.

While we all milled around, wondering what to do next, the phone rang. Karen had stopped the dishwasher and was answering the phone in the kitchen. It was then that the odor of dishwashing detergent that was perfuming the entire house began to take on a darker note. "Jesus! That¹s horrible!" somebody said from behind their hands.

Karen came running into the living room, a painful expression on her face. "That was them from next door. The hip-hop couple with their weekend company. There's poo in their bathtub and their kitchen sink is shooting sewage!"

Rob was struck by this. "We didn't do it," was all he could say.

I began to consider going home. "I'll bet we did," was about all I could muster.

It was then that Troy contributed yet another ominous bit of news. "If your neighbors are having crap and everything coming up out of their sinks and all, I think we'd better check yours."

Karen turned white as a sheet. "Oh God! The other bathroom!"

Everybody took off, half-tripping over furniture. Sure enough, down the hall, all hell had broken loose. I got past two other guys and peered in.

That looked familiar.

My glorious poop creation was back, sitting high atop a huge pile of mailing peanuts. And -- it wasn't alone! There were two others as well.

One had gone over the side of the toilet, landing in pieces on the carpet.

The other was just floating there, bobbing around as the gurgling water overflowed the bowl.

I heard one of the women say something like, "Karen, that's gonna ruin your carpet!"

Troy was yelling, "turn the water off, turn the water off!"

I was trying to think logically. "That won't help," I shot back. "It isn't coming from the toilet tank."

Karen was trying to sort something out. "This could be coming from anywhere... like next door."

Rob wasn't real sure of just what to do next. "I hope nobody is doing laundry -- we'll never stop it!" he said.

There was really nothing we all could do. We offered to stay around, but in the end, they just closed the doors and hoped for the best. They couldn't get a plumber until the morning. Rob called that Roto Rooter bunch, and they said it would be four hours until they could get there.

As I put on my jacket and prepared to go, my last sight was Karen with tears streaming down her face, wailing, "My bedroom, it's in my bedroom!"

-- Big Sphincter