Satan's Rest Room

I immediately suspected the monkeys of installing a camera in my bathroom when I heard an odd clicking noise. More disgusted than anything, I looked gingerly around the room, henceforth known as Satan’s rest room, until I found the source. It pains me that this undertaking has become a familiar routine when it comes to that place. Every day now I have to prepare myself to enter, as I never know what I will find. With a deep breath I push open the door and hope for the best.

This new noise however, was not from a camera craftily hidden by the monkeys. It was from the toilet. Satan strikes again. It’s not enough that he’s been washing his feet in my sink and pulling at the pipes in my ceiling. No, now he’s gone and messed with the throne.

Granted the toilet itself is about 112 years old, I can think of no other reason why it would suddenly pick now to leak instead of say 12 years ago when it hit the big centennial, than Satan having something to do with it.

If not for the toxic blue cleansing tablet I dropped in the tank a few weeks ago, Satan’s rest room would have been flooded and another cute little rug disposed of. As it stands, the floor behind the toilet was stained a light blue, a fact I wouldn’t have noticed if the noise hadn’t been coming from that general area.

But I’ve one upped him. Now I collect the water in a little bucket and when it is full I dump it back into the toilet where it belongs. Take that Satan.

His brother, El Diablo, lives in our microwave. Some days when the electricity is running wild, he writes us notes in Spanish on the display.