The toilet clogged this morning. When the landlady fixed my shower she also put some giant volume of something– concrete maybe– in the tank. So water isn’t being used in each flush. She’s been obsessed with this for years. First she tried a Mountain Dew 2 liter filed with seltzer, which gassed out and floated uselessly. Then a couple attempts with some kind of surgical bag full of gel.
The latest try she didn’t tell me about. Just the next day I noticed the water level in my toilet was one inch over the hole going into the sewer. This week I made spaghetti. Bought a 3 pound bag of frozen blueberries. My shits, giant and sticky and black. Every morning I flush twice. First flush just fills the bowl to the bottom lip with swirling dark turds and the one insulting wad of smeared toilet paper spiraling around. The second one, where I have to turn off the water at the wall first, then flush, makes it juuuuuust up to the meniscus, menacing the bathroom floor with agitated churning chunks of stool before slowly, slowly receding down after long seconds of suspense.
This morning I tried that trick again. Shit water oozed over the side of the bowl into the crack between the tiles. Almost out to the carpet. Had to sop it up with paper towels. Open the top of my old store brand cleanser with bleach spray bottle, which won’t spray anymore since a bug crawled in the nozzle. Dump the bleach on the floor. Walk in the wet spot to sterilize the parts of my bare feet that had stepped in shit water. Later I noticed bleach spots on my carpet. Like the man said: the Industrial Revolution and its consequences have been a disaster for the human race.
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delicioustacos 
Had to take a colossal dump the other day because I hadn’t made love to the shitter in around a near week. I’d been letting my feces brew for a while cause I’d gone on a junk food bender and I knew I had to give it some time to solidify.
Anyways, as this Lincoln Log bids my anal rectum its final kiss goodbye, I get up to flush only to realize it’s firmly lodged itself in that hole leading to the drain. I flush again, no luck. Again and again, and it keeps staring back at me. I’m like, Look, I know we spent a considerable amount of time together, but you can’t pull this shit on me. Literally and figuratively.
So, here’s what I do, I get a bucket and fill her up with some H20 and Avast Ye! I drown that motherfucker. Alas, to quote Jack Nicholson from The Shining- “A temporary loss in muscular coordination.” – and I realize I’ve thrown that water with more force than necessary and have had the toilet resultantly sputter that poop-ladled water onto me, the walls and everything in proximity. Anyways;
A million years ago my girlfriend abandoned me and I was devastated. She did not neglect, however, to leave me with a parting gift. She must have been on the rag at the time (typical) and been flushing her tampons because after I birthed a massive, grief-ridden shit I found that every time I flushed the water and the brown behemoth would rise higher and higher.
It was in the evening but I needed to get rid of that thing immediately – I would need to piss overnight and had to go to work all the next day. I don’t know about your countries, but in Australia plumbers are bloody expensive at the best of times and 8pm is not the best of times. They tend to have two cars – a ute and a beemer – and have a giant, ugly house in the outer suburbs.
Anyway, the plumber arrived and he looked like a plumber. First he tried the plunger but that was a joke. Turned my once proud turd into mush and he made a joke about how it looked like a nice soup. Spose that’s why they’re rich. Then he had to get his mate in with a machine to unclog it. Showed me the shredded remains of tampons they had removed and scolded me for being so irresponsible. Shredded tampons that had once been in the vagina of the woman I loved.
You know what you got to do mate, figure out a way to stuff your crap up her vagina. So, every time she puts a tampon on, she’s like, “Gee, it usually isn’t that hard to get one of these things up there.”
Then, one day, enough is enough, she goes to the Gyno who gives her a firm press on the nether regions and Blamo! Out pops the accumulated feces straight out of her hoohah, 1979-John Hurt style.
And she will look upon the H.R-fecal-Giger spawned from a man she once loved.
You remind me of the most tasteful joke ever told:
How do you make a fag fuck a woman?
Shit in her cunt.
Delish, I read your posting with sorrow.
You, Delicious Tacos, deserve so, so much better. This cannot go on. You are stuck in a horrible netherworld where exorbitant California bills keep raining on your head like a deadly kind of confetti and your salary barely inches along. You have to keep walking a treadmill like Snake Plisskin in Escape from L.A. just to keep up.
Once again, I remind you that there is a place for you in Toronto. I am working on my first novel, Taxi to the Dreamworld, a horror novel, which is going really, really well. It’s either that or Soul of the Cat People, a romantic soap, volumes 1 thru 5, which’ll get me the money I need to help YOU and ME. We need to be together, working side by side, laughing and joking and getting quality pussy on the wide boulevards of Toronto.
Believe me, if I had the liquid assets I would send you the money right now. But until I make it with my own novel, I’m stuck. To reassure you I’ll send you a sample of the start of Taxi to the Dreamworld. You decide if it’s good enough to make me some money. If you decide it is, then start counting down the days for when I can share my bounty with you. Listen up:
TAXI TO THE DREAMWORLD
by Greg Nikolic
Toolmaster, kneeling down on one knee, let his pet snake go — and the horrid thing undulated to Rebecca’s side. (She lay down immobilized.)
A pair of smashed cars showed where Toolmaster has intercepted Rebecca. The dim street was two hours from the witching hour. His toolbox was glowing green strongly. T.M.’s pair of dirty overalls was stained with the blood and tears of a hundred victims. Toolmaster’s smile was knowing. Rebecca’s eyes were fluttering as she tried to catch sight of his.
He stood up. Above Rebecca and ten feet away, T.M. loomed. But meanwhile the female snake, Koldia by name, was in front of Rebecca’s face, flickering out her tongue. The viper was so close Rebecca was seeing double, two snakes with iridescent scales and slightly raised tails.
{and later in the same section, we get …}
Thirteen miles out of Hamilton, a 56-year-old male driver with dandruff, behind the wheel of a white Lexus, spotted a hitchhiker.
If it had been another man, the drive would certainly have zipped by without a second sporty glance, but she wore a black cowboy hat — visible in the sallow spill of bright highway lights — looked and stood like a 20-year-old Shania Twain in a music video, and smiled like a bad girl. She didn’t even look that slutty, which made it better.
[…]
He popped open the door. One-finger flick, very kewl. As she slid in, trailing a fine aroma of sliced peaches and a floral bouquet, the driver remembered he wasn’t wearing any underwear and immediately popped a little chub of a hard-on among steel-gray pubic hairs. His heart was triphammer Alright, alright, alright. She looked out the window, as if scanning silently for witnesses. […]
“What’s your name, again?” the driver wanted to know.
“Koldia.”
————————————
Anyway, so you can see, it’s way more commercial than your brilliant-but-on-the-margins-quirky stuff. It’s designed to be. I have no desire to live with toilets upgurging their contents at the flush of a lever. I have to get GOING. It’s time to form my corporate juggernaut and make some WAVES. I need you, Delish; remember me. If you don’t believe I can make a media corporation — be a big writer — fine. But hold out a little hope. I ordinary would not hold ANYONE’S hand, in a supportive way like mollycoddling you, but I sense that you are nearing the end of your tether, just like Heartiste is (heartiste.wordpress.com) and just like my lord Captain Capitalism is (captaincapitalism.blogspot.ca). You three are all floundering, and only I, Greg Nikolic, can throw you a rope.
It is IMPERATIVE that I succeed as quickly as possible to save you three lords. But I am in dire, dire straits myself. It is likely I will have to seduce lots of chicks in Toronto, and bend them to my will. Then, possibly — we’ll see — set up a prostitution ring. One way or another, I AM getting money, and then going CORPORATE — media-corporate. You will be Vice-President of Mass Media, Delish. Count on it.
The other commenters here are offering you nothing. I am offering you EVERYTHING. Dream of this. Continue to check out my website for updates …. qedbook.wordpress.com . Some of my adventures are like yours, so you can at least share a chuckle at the little parallels. I love you, man. You are a demi-god to me. ~ Greg
P.S. If you want an ETA on when I can save you, think 14 to 24 months. It’s the best I can do.
Is this a fucking joke?? Toronto blows man. At least cali has good weather and lots of sunshine. Toronto has the worst quality sluts in all of Canada if not the entire U.S of fucking A. Why the fuck would you ever invite anyone to this shithole? Better to get the fuck out of the US. Mexico is better, or the caribbean. Preferably outside of the anglosphere.
Then again, tacos is apparently thumping the bottom of the barrel so maybe it will be an improvement for him lol
I couldn’t decide if you were an elaborate troll with no talent, or just a writer with no talent. Checked your website. My honest feedback:
Plumbers are born, not made.
From what little I’ve seen, Cernovich talks a good one. I suspect you’d agree. But yearning for money doesn’t mean you have anything that lots of people want. Some have talent. Some are lucky. Some work hard and are lucky. The rest of us make money the hard way.
Stop NOW. Your shit is shot through with grammatical errors as well as being absolutely lame. I feel compelled to intervene because your disconnect with reality reminds me of someone I used to know. He used to say “job stands for Just Over Broke”. Now he lives in some bushes behind a hospital and steals bikes from other more passive bums.
Plumbers are born, and your showing up for this particular post was likely a synchronicity, manifested by your innate plumber’s third-eye. Awaken, Luigi.
Develop a normal job skill like everyone else. I gave up and did it, and a book was later born out of it. But don’t try to jump ahead of the pack when you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. I made that mistake long ago and wasted many of my best years.
well, the black poop could be the blueberries or it could be blood….
you could be dying, go see a doctor, not some manosphere crackpot like Jack Donovan who tells you to bend over and touch your toes while he examines your prostate though. That’ll make it worse, look what happened to poor Charlie Sheen…
You know, I felt bad for DT when his cat was mauled to death but what’s even more galling, I think, is when certain people simply can’t be content with just leaving comments but have to posture themselves as wannabe writers too.
The typical reader here is a lonely, frustrated man age 20-45. looking to connect, relate and feel less alone. that loneliness is exacerbated when delicioustac0s leaves for long periods on pussy-getting expeditions, leaving his readers with no new blog-literature to consume. to live vicariously through. that neglect and abandonment leads to no good.
Thus, every post will have retarded comments by wannabe writers who lack the focus and gall to just do it on their own, and improve.
Easier to criticise than create. scarier to create and be open to criticism.
Simple as that.
But when we criticise critics and their criticism, what does that make us…just the same talentless scum, making derivative work.
superb anal-ysis
“But when we criticise critics and their criticism, what does that make us” — you mean, what does that make you? Answer: Count Circular Jerkular.
it looks like delicioustacos got bullycided—by his own readers. sad.
please continue to regale us with your tales of degeneracy.