I would give you my in-laws' names, but it's much more fun for me to call them Mil and Dil, which is my juvenile yet functional abbreviation for Mom-in-law and Dad-in-law. Or, their names could in fact be Millard and Dillene. Don't act like I made that one up. You know that somewhere, way down deep in the sphincter of the South, with a sister named Lurlene and a brother named Bass, is a little girl named Dillene, dreaming of the days when she can let her light shine, get out of the family double-wide that smells perpetually of Cheez Whiz and Raid, and make it big, singin' June Carter Cash at the traveling carnival for free funnel cakes and rides on the Tilt-A-Whirl. You go, little Dillene. YOU GO!
And for my next act, I plan to put down the crack pipe.
Aaaaaanyway, Mil and Dil just moved into their new house a week before our arrival, and they had been hard at work trying to erase all decorative evidence of the prior owners, whose taste I would be gracious to describe as 1980s Duckblind Chic. In contrast, Mil and Dil have fabulously excellent taste in home decor; their prior house, a rambling farmhouse they had built in Virginia, looked like a model home out of Southern Living, with acres of shiny wood floors and gleaming granite countertops. Upon arrival at the new pad, Mil told me the first thing she and Dil had done was to tear the forest-green shag carpet out of the master bathroom, before the color gave them seizures or the underlying mildew crept out and murdered them while they slept.
Thus I present to you a collage of the TP Penitentiary, before it goes extinct. Seriously, where's a good meteor when you need one? The pictures are of my traditional poor quality, in part because I took them, and in part because I took them quickly, on my cell phone, while I was pretending to drain the swamp before the trip home.
First off, the reason behind my naming the bathroom the TP Penitentiary: the actual toilet paper jail cell.
This is a maximum-security toilet paper incarceration facility, locking up dangerous, criminal toilet paper for your protection. I am aware that there is no actual toilet paper in there at this moment. It's all out workin' on the chain gang.
Next, the prison guard at the TP Penitentiary:
Guarding over his prisoners, the covert war-mallard pulls double duty, serving as a dirty, creepy eyeball to watch you while you drain the swamp. Adding an extra level of skank, he does not blink. He only stares.
Up next, should you be interested in washing the terror off your hands, a shelf holds all the hygienic necessities:
Literally, up next--up next to the ceiling, above the shower, is where the prior owners stowed the hand soap. The thing that looks exactly like a lantern (and how clever!) is actually a hand soap dispenser. Squeaky clean hands were just a fantasy for these folks, apparently. And should you feel the need to cast a line into the toilet, a handy tackle basket awaits, full of whatever you might need to go fishing. Like I know what that is. The one thing I do know you need, though...
...is hooks.
Can I...just...for a minute? THERE ARE FISH HOOKS ALL UP IN THE TOILET SEAT!!! Phoooo. Phooooooooo. Nothing welcomes your tender bits like a seat full of multi-purpose metal shards.
I'd like to remind you that the previous owners of this bathroom paid real live money for a seat full of jumblies specifically placed to be right next to their...jumblies.
I can't imagine why Mil and Dil want to redecorate.
Thus I present to you a collage of the TP Penitentiary, before it goes extinct. Seriously, where's a good meteor when you need one? The pictures are of my traditional poor quality, in part because I took them, and in part because I took them quickly, on my cell phone, while I was pretending to drain the swamp before the trip home.
First off, the reason behind my naming the bathroom the TP Penitentiary: the actual toilet paper jail cell.
This is a maximum-security toilet paper incarceration facility, locking up dangerous, criminal toilet paper for your protection. I am aware that there is no actual toilet paper in there at this moment. It's all out workin' on the chain gang.
Next, the prison guard at the TP Penitentiary:
Guarding over his prisoners, the covert war-mallard pulls double duty, serving as a dirty, creepy eyeball to watch you while you drain the swamp. Adding an extra level of skank, he does not blink. He only stares.Up next, should you be interested in washing the terror off your hands, a shelf holds all the hygienic necessities:
Literally, up next--up next to the ceiling, above the shower, is where the prior owners stowed the hand soap. The thing that looks exactly like a lantern (and how clever!) is actually a hand soap dispenser. Squeaky clean hands were just a fantasy for these folks, apparently. And should you feel the need to cast a line into the toilet, a handy tackle basket awaits, full of whatever you might need to go fishing. Like I know what that is. The one thing I do know you need, though......is hooks.
Can I...just...for a minute? THERE ARE FISH HOOKS ALL UP IN THE TOILET SEAT!!! Phoooo. Phooooooooo. Nothing welcomes your tender bits like a seat full of multi-purpose metal shards.I'd like to remind you that the previous owners of this bathroom paid real live money for a seat full of jumblies specifically placed to be right next to their...jumblies.
I can't imagine why Mil and Dil want to redecorate.
3 comments:
First: OMG THE TOILET SEAT RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.
Glad we got that out of the way.
Next, is "drain the swamp" a euphemism I have never heard for "pee" (in which case, swampy bladder sounds like you may want to go see a doctor), or was that actually one of the tasks you were given during your visit -- to drain the swamp that the TP War Mallard lives in?
It's just my euphemism for peeing. We drained the actual physical swamp out back the day before. Sadly, no photographic evidence exists.
Hysterical. I think had a seizure from laughing. From which now I need to change my underwear.
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