“AWWWWWWWWWWwwww…”
Before I even get started on this one, I need to ask — is it a German thing to keep the laundry basket in the bathroom? My German wife put it there when she set our apartment up, so maybe it’s just a small apartment thing (or maybe it’s a wife-with-poor-spatial-awareness thing). In any case, I am accustomed to the laundry basket being kept in the bedroom — not the bathroom — because very few things have any business being in the same room where I make pickles.
Okay, so on the morning of Tuesday, April 30, 2013, I accidentally tossed my dirty socks into our toilet here in Hannover, Germany. I had just returned to our apartment after walking around the Maschsee (not jogging, but walking, because my pollen allergies were going nuts and I felt like hell… plus I’m a huge pussy), and I stepped into the bathroom to undress and take a shower.
Normally, I start things off by placing a clean pair of boxer briefs and a towel on top of the toilet lid because it’s right next to the shower and can be reached when I emerge, sexy and steaming, from the stall. I then remove my running pants and set them on top of our laundry basket with my right hand while simultaneously using my left to strip off my socks and undies. I then hold the lid of the basket open with my right hand and place the socks and underwear inside with my left.
THIS is the right hole. Not the other hole. The other hole is bad.
On that Tuesday morning, however, I forgot to place a clean pair of boxer briefs on top of the toilet. I was completely naked except for my running socks, so I walked into the bedroom — wiener proudly flopping about — and grabbed a fresh pair of undies. I walked back into the bathroom, put the boxers on top of the toilet with my right hand, peeled off both socks with my left and threw them straight into the toilet.
Normally, the laundry basket makes a nice bump sound when its wicker lid closes, so you can imagine how I froze in place when I heard the sharp clack of the plastic toilet lid.
Something has gone awry, I thought to myself, standing up straight, eyes opening wide. My God, soldier… what have you done.
I opened the lid of the toilet and, sure enough, my socks were in there. Like, all the way in the hole, soaking up the water. They were drowning in those sullied waters, where a thousand grumpies had been pumped.
After I’d finally accepted the reality of what I’d done, I grabbed my iPhone and took a picture to show my wife. (This is what I normally do when faced with the results of my own clownshit stupidity.) Then I stuck my hand in the bowl and, pinching my socks between my thumb and index finger like a little girl picking up a stick with dog poop on it, lifted them out of the toilet. Of course, I still had my iPhone in my other hand and the socks were dripping filthy peniswater all over the place, so I panicked and flung them into the shower stall.
Pictured: poor impulse control.
I stood there for a moment, thinking, Private, you have failed to defuse the situation. Seeing no reasonable alternative, I snapped another picture, set my phone down and stepped into the stall.
“Okay, socks; you don’t like me and I don’t like you, but we’re about to take a very sanitizing, very molten-hot shower together. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. And if you decide to get cute and brush up against my ankle while my eyes are closed, I will find your children in the laundry basked, beat them with a meat tenderizer and set them on fire.”
Click here to learn more about the term “Culture Shock.”
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