cleaning

It is a personal quest of mine to have a sparkly bathroom and so I am constantly scrubbing it down. This has worked most of my life, but yesterday while shopping, I found myself entering a strange state in the cleaning aisle. The kind of state brought on by exposure to the electromagnetic mind-erasing mechanism known as Really Bad Bee Gees at Safeway.

I happened to be in front of the toilet cleaners when "How Deep Is Your Love?" sung by a chorus of eunichs scratched over the supermarket loudspeakers, completely scrambling the electrical activity in my brain.

I blacked out.

I awoke later in the bathroom holding what appeared to be a PlaySchool syringe.

Or an applicator worthy of shotgunning a month's supply of horrid genital medicines into unoccupied diseased-ridden orifices.

I opened this box to find an applicator full of a mysterious green gel.

The instructions commanded one to take charge -- grab the applicator, aim and shoot. Clear!

And voila -- one more North American commode is now radioactive.

Anyway. The toilet should smell nice, as pleasant as plutonium-scented flowers might be. Let's see how it holds up!