POMONA, MAY 13 - I drove to Home Depot to buy a new toilet seat. The old one is cracked. I know; reduce, reuse, recycle. I get it. We all get it. But what about old toilet seats? I can't reduce or recycle painted wood. I don't have anywhere to burn it. I'm not going to drive out to the woods just to burn my old toilet seat. That's crazy.
My only option, I guess, is to stow the old one in my garage and reuse it after civilization has collapsed, to place around the necks of my enemies / slaves. Maybe the unsightly crack will add an extra bit of shame to the already significant shame of having to wear a toilet-seat-yoke. Tough; that's what you get when you cross me after civilization has collapsed.
I used to worry about getting caught in the bowels of a Home Depot during a massive earthquake. Now I just hope when the 8.9 hits I'm squashed by something manly - an oven range or a washer dryer combo - and not a flying toilet. Fingers crossed.
When I worked as a supermarket cashier, years ago, I used to dwell on every purchase I rang up; the soap that would soon be pressed against someone's flabby torso until it dwindled into a sliver; the food that would soon be turned into something far less pleasant. Standing in line at Home Depot, I suddenly found myself staring at the drawing of a toilet on the box, thinking about all the thousands of times I'd have to seat and reseat myself on this object in the years to come. If the cashier was thinking this also, he had a good poker face.
Only when I'd parked my car in front of my house and had stepped out with my new toilet seat cover, did I notice the gaggle of teenage girls walking in slow motion down the sidewalk about 15 feet away. This was an adolescent nightmare of humiliation come to life and it literally, actually happened.