My life is over. Finis. Stick a fork in me, I’m done. I am forced to bid a fond farewell to my hopes and dreams of reaching greatness and bettering society.
My toilet water is clear again.
See, I’m one of the people who accurately believe you can make snap judgments about people just by looking at the color of their toilet water.
If I go to someone’s house and see blue water in the toilet, I automatically think, “Now here’s a person who has his or her act together. No wonder he or she is so successful.”
Allow me to rewind for a second and take a look at the events that set the stage for my demise.
About 200 flushes ago I was celebrating an obscure Sethular holiday known as Last Clean Pair of Boxers Day. This holiday is always observed the day before “Hmm, Guess I Have to Wear These Again Day.”
My ex-roommate and model American, Dirty Dave Carlson (notice Dirty is not in quotes. For him it’s not a nickname, it’s a way of life), taught me that hygiene is a zero-sum game. To keep the universe in balance, I had to do something clean to counter-act my drawers recycling.
I thought to myself, “Self, why don’t you turn your toilet water blue?”
It seemed kind of pretentious since I never really considered myself worthy of entering the upper-echelon of blue toilet water users, but I decided to go for it.
I shuffled to the toilet and dropped in the blue soap-looking thingy. Ladies and Gentlemen, Seth Fox has arrived.
I was saying to the world, “I am officially entering the Big Time. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore, send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me and allow them to use my superior bathroom facilities.”
Every morning for a month I would wake up before the alarm even sounded, eager to make a golden offering to my porcelain altar.
The view from on high was glorious. I would see my beautiful blue water and just relish in the thought that I was better than all the people out there with clear toilet water.
Then it all changed.
I woke up yesterday to plain, clear toilet water. Everything I had worked so hard for slipped away with one press of the handle. It probably seems like no big deal to you, but I’m going to let you in on a secret.
When Honest Abe Lincoln was killed that fateful Friday at Ford’s Theater, it wasn’t because of some silly little Civil War grudge. It was because Lincoln had rented out the Martin Van Buren Bedroom the week before and forced his guests to use a toilet with clear water.
After such a blatant disregard for etiquette, the CIA joined forces with the Women’s Suffrage Movement to eliminate Lincoln.
The Van Buren Bedroom was later renamed the Lincoln Bedroom to remind future Commanders-in-Chief not to mess with the mojo of blue toilet water.
What is even more depressing are those who were ignorant of history, thus doomed to repeat it. In 1997, a supermodel named Rebecca Romijn was climbing her way to the top of the modeling ladder.
That was until a fateful day when she hosted a party complete with clear toilet water.
In September 1998, she married John Stamos.
So now I sit (figuratively speaking, of course) needing to make a decision about the future hue of my toilet water.
I can replenish the blue supply and guarantee a Pulitzer Prize in my future. Or I can leave it alone and tempt the Fates.
I’m feeling lucky. I think I’ll gamble and leave it clear.
Besides, it tastes so much better now.