Our son did enormous poohs. Not lots of pooh, just one long turd the size of my forearm. The police could have used it as a trudgeon. The main problem was that each turd was so huge it was impossible to flush. I flushed one six times and it still didn’t go away. It was like a submerged crocodile, lodged in the bowl glaring at me. In fact, I’m positive that it had eyes that followed me around the bathroom as I pondered my next move.
Beating it to death with the toilet brush yielded no results either. God knows what these turds were made of; because it wasn’t regular human waste we were dealing with. These turds had the molecular structure of diamond encrusted titanium and the density of a black hole. They were impervious to the mere flushing of water.
Leaving one to ‘disintegrate’ over night was a tough choice to make. Luckily we have two toilets in the house because the ‘let the sleeping log lie’ plan rendered one toilet uninhabitable. No one wanted to be in the same room as the dormant turd because it was just plain scary. Its presence resulted in the accumulation of a dark energy that freaked all of us out. I even made my husband get out of bed to close the lid of the toilet in case it slithered out and tried to kill us in our sleep.
The next morning I entered the bathroom confident that our plan had worked. All that was needed now was a quick flush and the turd would be gone. Nothing of organic material could survive being immersed in water over night. It would have absorbed so much water that it had collapsed in on itself. One flush should all that was needed, maybe two. And so it was done – the flush and then another for luck.
Lifting the lid my heart went from a rumba to completely still. No! It’s not possible! Nothing can survive six flushes, a toilet brush clubbing, an overnight immersion, and another two flushes. What in God’s name is this thing made of?
“Jason?” I called out to my husband. “It’s still here. It just won’t go away.”
My husband, ever the problem solver with a crafty lateral mind, thought about it for a moment and then looked at me, shaking his head.
“I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but…” as he disappeared into the garage.
My mind was racing, as it usually does when he’s on the case. What brilliant plan had he come up with?
The hinges on my jaw broke when he reappeared with a three foot long hand saw in his grasp.
“Step aside. This may not be pretty,” he said, passing me and confronting the turd.
I watched mouth agape, eyes the size of hubcaps as my husband dipped the hand saw into the bowl and began to saw the turd into three pieces. Jason’s a big, strong man, and although he didn’t raise a sweat, he certainly put some elbow into it.
He flushed, once, twice, three times and then finally raised his hands in victory.
“It’s gone. Thank god, it’s gone,” he said.
Other than a few skiddies, there was nothing to suggest that it had even been there in the first place and peace was restored again.
Until the next night, when our son laid another monster turd. But this time, we were prepared. We knew how to defeat the beast. And so it continued, the laying and the slaying every second night until our son would just yell, “Dad! I’ve done a pooh. You’re gonna need the saw again.”
We were glad when his pooh returned to normal, human sized portions because we had visions of him living in his own house when he is older, having a nice girl over who uses his bathroom and emerges asking,
“Luke, I understand the toilet brush in the loo, but what’s with the saw?”