I actually derived more pleasure in writing this than I probably should have.

So I'll spare you the initial details, but at an ungodly pre-7a.m. hour it became clear to me that... well, let's just say I needed a plunger. I considered pretty much all the ways I could get around the inevitable, but I decided that, ah, what the hell, this would at the very least probably make a good story. The only uncertainty was whether or not Publix was open at 7, as the earliest I can remember shopping was 7:30 at the earliest. (Buying water, pre-"hurricane" Ernesto.) Any supermarket, I thought, worth its shit would be open then.

Ha. Or something.

I must have spent a few minutes thinking this through in my head, because I found it was then something like 7:10. It was now clear to me that there were only two ways to do this -- the boring, conformist way... or in my pyjamas. (See photos in comments here for reference.) Naturally, I chose the latter.

Getting ready took about a minute, and consisted of picking up my keys and slipping a $20 in my waistband. And putting on my sandals. Because, I mean, why drive when I live one diagonal block from Publix?

Locked the door and started walking. Found myself to be in (My alarm clock would have just rang.) generally good spirits, singing classic Weird Al as i went. Passed through the gap in the hedges. Jaywalked. Checked about once every four feet to make sure my cash was still where I put it. Generally arrived at Publix, entering right behind a guy in an undershirt (my dress-down brethren!) and an old lady whose first stop was the Halloween candy designed to grab you right as you enter.

I, however, had my sights on a different aisle. Six or seven, or five or six... I narrowed my possible aisles down to two and checked them both. I found where my intricate knowledge of supermarkets would have placed plungers if I were king of the world. I... came up empty.

Already low on dignity, I ventured into the produce section to ask for help. I came across an Assistant Manager. The fact that he had his own personal table and was using it to write something in a binder really called out to me. It said something like Everett... I am knowledgeable and kind. If you need assistance, I would be pleased to help you. Or maybe it was more of a standard Can I help you? but, you know, it was more than the rank-and-file produce-stocking guy offered. Basically, it was like God decided to stop hating me for a minute.

I asked my question and the Assistant Manager (I really really wish I had remembered his name... let's call him Alberto, 'kay?) thought for a second, turned in the general direction of the aisle as if to concentrate better on the magnetic fields and supernatural energy flowing through the Publixian æther, which ought to help him remember the aisle he presently couldn't see from where he was standing.

Seven, he said. Or maybe six. (Or was it five or maybe six?) Either way, it was one of the aisles I already tried, and I let him know as much. He led me back to the very place where my intricate knowledge of supermarkets would have placed plungers if I were king of the world. (Score.) There were still no plungers there.

Wait right here he said, and promptly disappeared somewhere in the back. Slightly amused all the while, there I stood, concentrating on the spot where the plungers should be. By the time he returned, I had managed to will into being a grand total of ZERO plungers, and he faired about as well in the back. Taking one last hard, incredulous look at the plunger spot, he declared that they "must be out." To lunch, I figured.

I asked if he, in his infinite Assistant Managerial knowledge, knew whether or not this was the sort of thing I'd be able to find at the drug store "on the corner" (can never remember which it is). "Probably," he answered. "They sell just about everything else there."

"That's alright, thanks," I replied. "It's shaping up to be an interesting morning," I nodded. He smiled, finally allowed to acknowledge the oddity of it all.

And off to the drug store I walked. By this point, I was able to point out the precise areas on my foot that would blister. And I found myself stuck on the median as a result of poor attention paid to crossing signals. Ah, life.

Finding the plungers was straightforward at Walgreens, but to my horror, I found I had a choice of plungers! Oh no! There was the standard, pink-red plungers with the wooden handle. And then there was the MASTER PLUNGER. I spent a good few minutes weighing the pros and cons of each. The cheap one will work, this much I know, but it won't work particularly well, though, 'cause it doesn't have the little extra ring at the bottom. And the MASTER PLUNGER... well, might work. Or might not. But come on, it's the MASTER. FUCKING. PLUNGER.

Unconvinced that I should spent twice as much on this newfangled plastic thing, I picked it up and inspected it more closely. I tried it against my hand -- talk about extreme suction, indeed!

But I was troubled by a couple things. First, the tag shows that it can be used not only on toilets, but also sinks and shower drains alike. I'm sure they weren't lying, but why the fuck would I use my toilet plunger in my sink? The first thing I use this on will most definitely be my toilet. I don't consider this a multi-use item. And who was the genius who decided to make one in white? (See model MP500-4 on the MASTER PLUNGER page, the only one at Walgreens) White plunger? C'mon.

I grabbed the standard pink one, slung it over my shoulder and walked to the cashier. Devoid of personality and seemingly unaware of the true comic gold of my situation as I pulled up my shirt slightly and removed the twenty from my waistband, the robot told me my total. I paid. I left.

It doesn't get any more interesting than this. I walked the block-or-so back to the apartment, but not before spacing out at the crosswalk once again, missing my chance to cross safely for that cycle. I think it was at about this point that I dropped my keys and change into the plastic bag, and slung the plunger over my shoulder. I might as well give everyone who sees me reason to, you know, feel actually pretty good about their day so far.

Back at the apartment, I'm ready. It's on.

Apparently. The. Water. Went. Down. While. I. Was. Gone.
Yay?

I bend my knees and put my back into it. I plunge it for good measure.