I use my frequent bouts of insomnia to think deep thoughts and ponder the mysteries of the universe. Do black patent leather shoes really reflect the view up our skirts? Do bar patrons who are drinking non-alcoholic beer also smoke candy cigarettes? Do gangs of elderly delinquent dames prowl the streets at night in search of Black Market estrogen?
Could a heart attack victim be revived with a toilet plunger? I once read that a hand-held suctioning device was being developed which may be more effective at reviving stopped hearts than CPR. It was invented after a housewife in San Francisco successfully used a toilet plunger to massage her husband’s heart after he had a heart attack at home.
This brings a whole range of questions to my sleep deprived mind. Was the plunger clean? Given a choice, I may decide that I would rather die than have my chest massaged with a well-used plunger.
Whatever gave her the presence of mind to try the procedure? The whole thing sounds a little fishy to me.
Perhaps she wasn’t trying to revive him. Perhaps she was trying to kill him, or at least cover his chest with plunger shaped hickeys. The way I see it, he had recently retired and was spending his days following her around and correcting her housekeeping methods.
Earlier that day, he pointed out that she should polish the furniture by rubbing with the grain instead of against it. Then he interrupted her favorite soap opera to helpfully suggest that the spices would be easier to find if they were arranged alphabetically.
Then when she was scouring the toilet, he leaned over her shoulder and pointed out that in the Northern Hemisphere it is more efficient to swirl the water in the toilet bowl in a clockwise direction. She was doing it wrong.
That’s when she grabbed the nearby plunger and Kashoop! Kashoop! Kashoop! All over his wretched body until, in his terror, he suffered a massive coronary.
When the paramedics arrived, there he lay on the bathroom floor, a toilet plunger rising majestically from his chest. She explained that she had been trying to revive him. Ha! likely story!
While I lay there sleepless in the dark, I wondered if a plunger would even adhere to a naked, hairy, male chest. Perhaps if I shaved his chest and wet the plunger first. Hmm. A few moments later, my husband awoke to find me crouched over his prone body with a straight razor in one hand and a dripping plunger in the other.
If you see him sprinting down I-75, would you lasso him and send him home? he should be somewhere around Louisville by now.