This week has progressed fairly uneventfully.I would have to say, aside from heat and humidity so thick that the miracle of evolution has begun in the primordial soup of my towel rack, that this week has actually gone quite well.Then again, compared to a few weeks ago, undergoing a body cavity search at a Michael Bolton-Whitney Houston twinbill would seem rully kewl — even if they found something naughty up there and threw me in a Turkish prison in the same cell with Anna Nicole Smith and Gilbert Gottfried while they were having sex and watching the same Saved By The Bell episode over and over again with the dialogue completely memorized.

Okay, so maybe I have a problem differentiating between “irritating” and “traumatic,” but check this out.On the Monday of the week in question, I decided to be a nice person (which I should have recognized as a mistake immediately.Bunting acting nice…Karen Carpenter as a spokesperson for Taco Bell…you get the picture) and buy tickets to a concert for my friends that actually have offices to go to every day.On that Monday, it rained.It rained hard; it rained horizontally.But since I can’t see weather from my apartment unless I turn on the Weather Channel, I went out in it and immediately sank up to my ankles into one of those toxic green we-have-waited-for-you-at-this-corner-since-1983-Sarah puddles.Then I marched into Woolworth’s and bought one of those plasticky umbrellas that gets you high because the dome shape traps you in there with the fumes…ahhhhh…

But on with our story.Armed with a miniature vinyl version of Olympic Stadium, I headed to the subway.No problem — my dead grandmother could push the N train faster than it runs now, and a homeless guy tortured the entire car with showtunes for five stops, but nothing new there — until I got off at Union Square.Wind transformed my dome into a sail; I rode the dome to Irving Plaza, only to find that I had to wait another hour.Again, no problem — I had the dome!I domed over to McDonald’s for some coffee, which I promptly spilled on my hand, but I couldn’t entertain fantasies of an expensive lawsuit, because Mickey D’s has printed “WARNING: THIS COFFEE MAY BE EXTREMELY HOT, MORON” all over their coffee cups.Bummer.

On my way back to Irving Plaza, another wind filled the dome, and blew it inside out.Our relationship had lasted only 45 minutes.We didn’t even have sex.Anyhow, I got drenched, finally got the bloody tickets, and squished over to the office to pick up some data entry work, which Ernie thoughtfully placed in a green folder for me.The green folder got wet (go figure) and leaked all over my clothes, my couch, and my hand, and the green wouldn’t come off.Fortunately, the folder did not have a warning printed on it, so I can sue Ernie, because if some cave-dweller on Second Avenue could ask me if I just gave a leprechaun a handjob, then I can sue one of my best friends, and to hell with that blood-sister-crap — I’LL SEE YOU IN COURT, BEEEE-ATCH!

That basically sums up Monday, except for when the freelance disk I slaved over all afternoon while I drip-dried got eaten by the computer at work, but Jeff salvaged it, so that didn’t suck too much (but now I can’t sue him).By the time I rolled out of bed on Tuesday, most of my bad mood had worn off.Then I stupidly thought that I could flush my toilet and expect it to function properly.

But with a gurgle that sounded suspiciously like the words “nay nay not today,” the toilet spewed water and fecal matter and used toilet paper all over my bathroom.Inches ahead of the tidal wave, I sprinted downstairs to my super’s apartment, but he had elected to spend the day elsewhere.His wife lent me a plunger and shrugged apologetically.Plunging only served to suck more E. coli-bearing offal into my bathroom without clearing the blockage, so I called a plumber.

“Ehhhh, Acme Plumbing.”
Yeah, I have a disaster on my hands here, my toilet has overflowed, so when can you send someone?
“Ehhhh, hour and a half.Wit de rain, ehhhh, ya know, we’re ovahloaded heah.”
Well, what should I do until then?
“Ehhhh, you try to plunge it?”
Yeah, I tried that — no dice.Any other suggestions?
“Ehhhh, turn de water off in de toilet.”
How do I do that?How — hello?Hello??!OKAY, DRAINBOY, GET YOURSELF A LAWYER!

The toilet and I raced each other for awhile; the toilet flowed, and I mopped.A large puddle formed in the lowlands of the kitchen.I plugged my nose with some paper towels and sang that chain gang song, and then I called Mr. Kite and he helped me figure out how to turn the water off.

Then I waited.I waited and I waited and I waited, and after six hours and a land-speed dash to McDonald’s to use their bathroom (and, of course, buy some french fries, because you can’t use the damn bathroom unless you buy something, and the thought of eating so much as one fragment of greasy potato after spending six hours wading around in doody made my stomach turn, and naturally the line stretched to New Jersey, and once I finally bought the frickin’ french fries, I stormed outside and got stopped on the sidewalk by some bonehead wanting to know if I needed a stress test, as if there WEREN’T a vein threatening to explode in my forehead, and I wanted to yell, “I am a slave to my toilet — FIGURE IT OUT,” but I didn’t, because I had to run home in case the plumber decided to pull a fast one and actually SHOW UP), the plumber came, stayed three minutes, charged me ninety-two dollars, and split.

I don’t know how the rest of the week turned out — at that point, I lost consciousness until sometime on Friday – but I assume that it sucked.

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