A decade ago, on the 4th of July, I found myself in an embarrassing situation that still haunts me.

My wife and I were invited to hang out at our friend’s Minneapolis apartment pool. 

You should know that, for this particular friend, rules are made to be followed. As he read his apartment’s rules, he discovered he was allowed only three guests to the pool. No exceptions. This made for a short guest list poolside, but more friends were invited for a barbeque later in the day. 

Next to the pool, they were not invited to. 

My wife and I arrived at the pool party early to accompany the host of the party on a couple of errands to get some food and drink. 

You should know that we went to Winnipeg the weekend prior for our 5th wedding anniversary (another story for another day). 

“Are you sure you want to wear that today?” I asked my wife as she came downstairs before we went to downtown Minneapolis.

“Why, what’s wrong with this?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said with a smile, “it looks great.”

As we went to Kramarczuk’s Sausage Co. in the St. Anthony neighborhood to buy food to grill later, a guy on a road bike came speeding past. He asked a straightforward question as he flew by:

“Canada?”

My wife decided to wear a red shirt with a white maple leaf and Canada on the front on the 4th of July.

My wife seemed genuinely baffled at the passer-by’s comment.

“What did you think was going to happen?” We asked her through laughter as we made our way back to the apartment. 

The weather was perfect that day. The kind of heat that only a day by the pool can cure. We had a blast drinking beer and swimming (like our forefathers would have wanted). 

When it came time for the barbeque, we realized we were highly ill-prepared. We had no grilling utensils. We didn’t even have paper plates. 

I ate a brat using a small chip bag as a makeshift bun. 

You appreciate the invention of the bun when you eat a hot stick of meat out of a bag made of multiple layers of polymer materials. The bun is critical to the process. It protects your hand while you wait for the inside of the meat stick to cool from its magma-like state. Without the bun, you must decide if you want a burned hand or mouth. 

After eating, we decided to head to Saint Anthony Main to continue the celebration, drink beer, and watch fireworks. 

Our party had grown from four people to ten people. 

We took the elevator to my friend’s 600-square-foot studio apartment to change clothes before heading out. On the journey up, my stomach started to feel a bit funny. 

“Is it cool if I take a quick shower?” I asked as we entered the apartment. 

“I don’t care,” he answered with a tone I didn’t quite care for.

Of course, I didn’t really need a shower. 

If you’d like more detail, I wrote about this strategy here, but I needed to announce that I was taking a shower so no one asked questions when they heard the water running. 

Why? 

Because the sole purpose of the water was to mask any other possible noises that may come from the bathroom, as nine people essentially huddled outside the bathroom door due to the size of the apartment. 

Let me tell you, there is no panic quite like watching the water in a toilet bowl rise due to a clog from your own bowel movement whilst in the only bathroom in a small apartment packed with people. 

There should be support groups for those who have gone through this. 

Please don’t overflow. Please don’t overflow, I thought as sweat poured from my head.

The water mercifully stopped about an inch below the rim of the bowl. 

I got in the shower to buy myself a little time.

The water will go down, and you can flush again. What if it doesn’t? Or what if it does, and the water overflows this time? That won’t happen. You are panicking for no reason. No reason?! Nine people on the other side of this door will know that not only did you poop, but you clogged the toilet like an animal. There is no coming back from this.

Isn’t my inner dialogue neat? 

When I got out of the shower, a much too long shower, I couldn’t help but notice that the water level had not changed. 

I cracked the door to the bathroom and looked out to see my wife just finishing getting dressed in the closet just outside the bathroom door. 

“Are you done?” She asked.

“Not exactly,” I said, “I need a plunger, and there isn’t one in here. I don’t know what to do.” 

“I’m sure he has one. It will all be okay. Just go ask him,” my wife said, attempting to reduce the panic splashed all over my face. 

I dried off, dressed, and walked four steps to talk to my friend, who was making a cocktail in the kitchen. 

“Hey, can I use your plunger?” I asked.

“Oh my God, did you clog the toilet?” He asked in a voice far too loud for the size of the apartment.

“Yeah,” I admitted in a hushed voice, then asked again, “Can I use your plunger?”

“I don’t have a plunger,” he said with little concern for my predicament. 

“Why don’t you have a plunger,” I asked in a quiet rage.

“I don’t make a habit of clogging toilets,” he responded.

I thought, who the fuck makes clogging toilets a habit?

“Is there someone we can call to get one?” I asked, trying to find a solution.

“This isn’t a hotel,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“Well, what the fuck should I do?” I asked in a whisper yell.

“I don’t know,” he yelled. 

With that, the only female aside from my wife in the apartment approached as I glanced toward the windows remembering that they didn’t open. I started doing some quick mental calculations, wondering if I would run as fast as I could if the glass would break so I could end the living nightmare I had found myself in.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Tim clogged the toilet,” my friend informed her.

I don’t know what I could have done to deserve this, I thought.

I didn’t hear the rest of their exchange due to the volume of the blood pumping through my ears. However, the next thing I knew, I was being handed a garbage bag. 

I looked at the garbage bag in my hand with complete confusion. 

“Just put your hand inside, and roll it up your arm. It will be gross, but you can unclog the toilet with your hand,” she said.

“O-okay,” I said, walking back to the bathroom in shame.

“I hate my life,” I said to my wife as I passed her going back to the scene of the crime.

She did her best not to laugh, and I love her for that.

I rolled the bag up my arm like I was Laura fucking Dern preparing to inspect a giant pile of dinosaur shit in Jurassic Park and reached into the cool water of the toilet. I don’t think I cried while unclogging the toilet, but I could have. 

I’d rather eat a thousand consecutive hot brats out of mini chip bags burning my hands and mouth before touching my excrement through the thin protection of a garbage bag again.

When the water starts to rush downward, the relief is the same as when you pop a limb back into a joint. 

That relief was short-lived when I remembered I needed to leave the bathroom to an apartment full of people who knew exactly what I just did. 

I walked out. Everyone was looking at me with smirks on their faces but silent.

“I can’t believe you clogged the toilet,” my friend yelled as the room erupted in laughter. 

I put the inverted garbage bag inside another garbage bag, threw it away, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and drank every drop as fast as I could. 

I genuinely hope you never have to experience a horrific situation like this. However, you now know what to do should you find yourself in such a predicament. 

You might want to know what happened to my relationship with the “friend” who handled that situation with little discretion. You might think I don’t have much of a relationship with him anymore. 

I officiated his wedding in May. How he handled that situation is why I love him so damn much. 

Cheers.