It's Easter Sunday and I simply can't resist the green bean and mushroom soup recipe with the onion crunchies sprinkled on top. Of note: this particular dish had proven in years past to be a personal topside colonic.

Later that same day:

There was nothing noteworthy about the actual defecation, other than it was an expected holiday load. The tiny porcelain bowl was filled exponentially with my mighty excrement and would demand a requisite plunge. This I knew.

I lingered on the bowl for a few minutes, reading from a pamphlet containing inspirational thoughts about Jesus. As promised by the book, my heart was filling with hope and joy. However, as religious experiences are often accompanied by great tribulation, I was about to be tested.

I reached behind for the plunger and retrieved what appeared to be a homemade duster of some sort. A cloud of doom blew in over my sunny disposition. It was the feeling of getting a flat tire on a desolate Mexican highway and discovering that the only tool in the spare tire carrier is a tampon.

The device in my hand had a flimsy plastic handle about a foot long, with a wad of hooker pantyhose knotted around one end. Delightfully embroidered flowers accentuated the mesh clump. It was housed in a clamshell device set behind the tank with a decorative lace-trimmed skirt around the base. I noticed that the fabric matched the curiously-shaped doll on the sink counter. Lifting the dress of the small Scarlet O'Hara, I discovered her smuggling a full roll and now understood that this all correlated into a sort of "country-style" bathroom toolkit. I added the knowledge of the spare roll to my mental inventory.

Naturally I checked the sink cabinet and scoured the rest of the tiny room for a plunger, hoping that the gnat-flogger I was holding was just for decoration. Unfortunately, there was no regulation poo motivator to be found.

I asked myself: WWMGD?

Obviously MacGyver would make a helicopter out of the sink and fly out the ceiling vent. But since I was much less capable, my only other option was to dismantle the towel rack and use the rod as a battering ram against the fecal minutemen guarding the border. Since I had no tools to remove the towel rack, I returned to the hand-crafted artifact and weighed possible outcomes. It seemed morally wrong to use someone's proud art project as a sewer trowel, but I further reasoned that they must have expected it would eventually be used for the very dilemma I was facing. Otherwise, why not display it in a trophy case, or perhaps on the mantle over a fireplace, instead of behind the toilet tank?

I cleared my head and tried not to think about my future as I sunk the frail doily stick headfirst into the heart of darkness. It felt as if I was holding someone's beloved grandmother by her ankles as I repeatedly dunked and stirred the whisk in an effort to re-arrange the former Easter feast for passage.

A few bubbles of hope -- and then the damn broke. The anemic-looking utensil had managed to compromise the well-seated grease plug enough to allow hydraulic equalization. I flushed a couple more times, using the water vortex in an attempt to rinse out the embedded nuggets. But it became apparent that the doily whisk would never again offer the same satisfaction that it originally must have awarded its creator. I shook the water out and used my foot to open the clamshell containment vessel, re-docking the unit with its mother ship.

An important public service announcement:

In a day and age when we wrap our kids in foam rubber and strap industry-approved helmets to their heads, elbows, and knees, are we not shrieking our own hypocrisy by equipping our bio-sanctuaries with decorations from Cracker Barrel?

Perhaps there may come a day in the evolution of our species when we shit lollipops and pastel-colored fur. When such a time arrives, we may find function for these lacy bowl-scratchers. But until that day, please, for the love of all that is pure and wholesome, keep a regulation plunger within arms reach of the yammer.

The more you know...