It was the worst of times. I was living in a crummy little studio apartment in an apartment complex on Long Island. The maintenance staff at the complex consisted of three assholes -- well, two assholes, and their wannabe-asshole bitch. One of the maintenance assholes was particularly crusty: a gray-haired drunk in his sixties who looked like he was perpetually constipated and had a face was analogous to a hemorrhoid. He was a nasty bastard. The poor seniors in the complex were afraid to ask him to fix anything for fear that he might yell at them, which he often did -- even at my octogenarian neighbor! This piece of human crap's name was Kenny.

Kenny was one of the biggest assholes I've had the displeasure of knowing. He'd steer clear of me because I'm a man, and therefore his superior. He tried intimidating me once, but I quickly let him know that a six-foot, 215-pound thirtysomething guy does not scare quite as easily as a frail eighty-year-old grandmother.

Kenny's motto was, "Why fix it if you can bully the tenants into living with it? I'm sixty-two years old and shouldn't have to be fixing toilets."

Ah! The toilets! Those marvelous thrones of sanitization that convey our bodily waste to the slimy passages from which Kenny's ancestors hail. The poop 'n piss pots in these apartments worked about as well as the refrigerators and maintenance assholes -- that is, at only about 20% of normal capacity. I guess this was fitting, because if they had been better, it would've been more tempting to dwell in the bowl than the apartments that contained them.

Being a man of good size, and being one who has eaten a natural food diet for many years, I am accustomed to excreting rather vast quantities of dense matter. These terlits often couldn't handle the cat turds that elderly feline fanciers would flush; needless to say, the flushing mechanism was as useless to me as a toothbrush was to Kenny.

Flushing paper wasn't even remotely an option. Flushing turds was virtually fruitless, unless one used a Kenny-stick to hold back the excreta while letting the swirling waters build up enough momentum to exert some suction and then releasing at just the right moment. If the mass was not unusually large, this would guarantee success, about 50% of the time.

There came an evening when I had to defecate. It seemed like it was going to be just a little thing; but the more I sat, the more I shat. I began to worry that I might soon find myself rising up towards the ceiling on a pile of logs, like a patient being elevated in a dentist's chair.

After the shitting was through, I turned to see how much my pile resembled Kenny and was aghast to discover that the bowl was at least half-filled with the brown tide. There was no way that this was going to flush! I did give it the old college try though, as I was heading to bed. I didn't feel like waiting an hour or two for one of the assholes to come and admire my creation and send it on up shit's creek. I tried -- I really did -- but after ten flushes, and two near-overflows, I gave up and went to bed, first pissing on top of the creature from the brown lagoon.

By the time I awoke in the morning, I had the perfect plan. I would avoid my bathroom all day, and in the evening, when only Kenny would be on duty (pun intended), I'd have him do the horr... err.. honors!! I went to water my creation that morning. I guess because it sat all night submerged in pee-pee, it had degenerated into a mass of brownie mix-like mud, reeking so horribly that I dare not use the bathroom for any reason -- until it was Kenny-tized!

That evening, I brought my dog to my mothers place. I wanted to be close by when Kenny did his work, which wouldn't have happened if I had had to restrain my seventy pound pitbull mix, who hated Kenny even more than I did.

8:30 PM: I make the fateful call to the office. "My toilets clogged AGAIN. Bring your straw!"

9:30 PM: Kenny arrives. I let him in. He walks to the bathroom without so much as a "hello," lifts the seat, and starts working his plumber's snake. Before even one second had elapsed, it hit him -- the horrible stench from this huge mass that had been soaking in piss for twenty-four hours. I heard him gasp in utter disgust and repulsion.

He was having trouble with the snake, so he had to bend down near the bowl in order to exert enough force in the right direction to clear the obstruction. After not more than two seconds on his knees, it started: he got the dry-heaves! I was standing three feet behind him; he was on his knees, in front of my toilet, cleaning my filth and going, "HhhhhLAAAAHH!" "hUUUUlllllp!" -- making the motions, but not actually puking. I just couldn't restrain myself -- I burst out into audible laughter with every hurling noise he made. It was GREAT! He was totally humiliated and emasculated, and I was laughing my ass off! It was really all I could do to restrain myself from putting my hand on the back of his head and pushing his face into the bowl.

He got the obstruction cleared, flushed the toilet, and quickly exited, his snake dripping rust-colored water behind him, leaving a trail to the door.

For two months after that, every time I'd pass Kenny in the parking lot or on a walkway, I'd look at him and just start laughing to myself. I wonder what he told Assholes II and III what I was laughing at? That was about four years ago. Today I live in a rural area about nine hundred miles away from Long Island, and enjoy a pleasant life -- while Kenny has retired and now lives as a victim in the very apartment complex he used to terrorize!

-- General Colon Pow! (TheBigCheese) [1]