I recently relocated to San Francisco. Yep... no more Minnesota Matt. Whoa, no -- I am big time now! I spent a hundred nights on my brother's couch until I finally secured a job and, a month ago, got my own pad: a small one bedroom with windows to alleyways on top of Russian Hill in San Francisco. It's really expensive, so money is really tight. And you'll see how tight.

It all starts on a non-traditional Friday when, instead of testing my alcohol intake, I elected to take a jog. After an hour of running by the bay, I was exhausted. So, like the fifty-year-old I am, I went to bed at ten o'clock on a Friday night. That ain't me, but I loved not waking up in hell.

So I woke up at 6:30 A.M., fully recharged, like a spring fucking chicken, ready to see for the first time what the S.F. morning life is about. Went down to Peet's Coffee Shop (REALLY GOOD COFFEE!).

"One large latte, please!"

After I get to my pad and suck down my coffee, my bowels start rumbling as if this was the new version of S.F.'s Great Quake of ‘06. In the distance, I can hear my toilet already whimpering because it knows what is going to happen. So I mount the bitch and I fire the greatest amount of digested bulk material this porcelain structure has ever seen.

Lo and behold, the engineers in Kohler had designed this model of toilet to deal with merely mortal amounts of human waste. I'd just challenged this unit with a dump of which Zeus himself would have been proud. This resulted in a resulting blockage of Katrinan proportions.

I am so white trash that I do not even own a plunger. I curse the inhabitant prior to me for not leaving one. Hear me on this one, people: plungers are specific to toilets, not people. You do not transport a plunger across country nor county lines in fear of getting poop juice on your things. No, etiquette states you leave it for the next person to use the toilet, where the plunger is familiar with the waters and the unit it would be servicing. Removing a plunger from your bathroom when you move is akin to ripping two ten-year-old best friends away from one another.

So I have a heap of crap in my toilet.

Uhhhh. Guess I got to do the embarrassing shopping trip to Walgreens and buy one. Don't get me wrong -- I knew this moment would eventually come. But I didn't think it would be so soon. I thought I could find one on sale or something.

How many of you have gone to the store and bought only a plunger? See, y'all are smart if you buy a bar a soap, a toilet brush, and maybe a drainstopper along with your plunger. But current economics did not allow me such luxury.

So I approach Walgreens, and I find myself part of the crowd that waits for them to open their blessed doors. The milling crowd is comprised of two blue hairs either buying the San Francisco Chronicle or ExLax so they can labor the following day on having the same issue as me; a drunk dude who hasn't quit partying and is winding down his night; and yours truly.

After chucking elbows to be the first to enter, I go straight to the plungers, grab one, and head to the checkout. Once I set said item proudly on the checkout stand, I hear an obnoxious giggle erupt from behind me. "The drunken bastard..." I think. I turn to my right to see eyes of blood red. The drunken bastard asked if I had I a better night than he, to which I reply, "I have had the greatest morning... until now."

We both laugh, knowing what lurks deep within my toilet. I leave not with embarrassment but with a smirk of pride, as that defines me. Three pumps... turd gone! Time to enjoy the day.