Dwayne Who?


Hey, Hey, Hey!  Fair warning:  This post is prone to several tangents.  Stay with me…

Anyone familiar with knock-knock jokes has heard the following:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Dwayne.

Dwayne who?

Dwayne the tub, I’m dwowning!

Pure comedic genius.  And speaking of comedic genius, remember that show What’s Happening!!?  Crazy, little Dee used to always bribe people for her silence.  Raj, Rerun, and the gang would be up to their typical, mid-70s hijinks and Dee would rat them out unless they complied with her demand “Gimme a dollar.”  Oh, what mischievous fun!  Turns out, the character “Dwayne” appeared in every episode—the only character to do so.  Played by Haywood Nelson, he used the same catchphrase each time he entered a scene: “Hey, Hey, Hey!”  I’m reminded of another knock-knock joke:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Haywood.

Haywood who?

Haywood you…

I can’t remember how it ends, but I think it’s not “family blog” material.

Why am I going on and on about a show I used to watch after school in the 80s?  Simply to introduce the real reason for this blog:

As a single man, it is my prerogative to maintain my one-bedroom apartment however I see fit.  I choose to keep it fairly clean on the off-chance a single woman might find herself within these walls.  Wouldn’t want her stepping in anything I couldn’t quite explain.  I do the dishes, run the vacuum, put away laundry, etc.  Shit, I even dust from time to time; when dusting I am required—as a man—to use an old pair of underwear into which my junk has worn several holes.

Real quick:  What is it about my junk that causes several holes be worn into a pair of drawers?  From what I gather, they aren’t toxic.  The off-chance a single woman has met them, there’s been no adverse side effects.  I just don’t get how my balls can do that to cotton.  Anyway.  Sorry you had to read that…

As I was saying, I keep a clean house.  Balls and all.  Last week, I cleaned my bathroom.  I used cleanser and some bleachy spray to

Which One of You Is Dwayne?

really scour and shine the shower.  Because I’m a single dude, I typically wait until the colonies that have formed in the shower are advanced enough to take flight and escape Terra Ceramica.  Translation: The shower is the least frequent and last thing to get cleaned.  Yet, there I was, going to town on the ring-around-the-tub.  When I finished, it didn’t exactly squeak but it would certainly suffice.

Upon my next ballscrubbing, I realized that the tub was not draining properly.  Could it have been that I’d so-vigorously scoured the surfaces in the shower that my drain was now clogged with scum?  Must be, right?  Damn, I clean up good!  After a couple showers’-worth of nasty water, the tub needed cleaning again.  But I’m not going to rehash the scrubbing until I’ve corrected the drainage issue.  I did what most men would: I went out and bought the strongest, cheapest bottle of chemical pipeclearer I could find.  Liquid Plumber or some shit.

I know I keep repeating myself over and over, but I really want you to understand something: I am a man.  We do things the way we do them for a reason.  So that men in the future have no idea how to do the shit we did.  Fuck instructions.  Better yet, I will read instructions then make what I feel—er, know—are improvements to the suggestions made by a manufacturererer…  Sorry, caught myself in a bit of a loop there…  The bottle of chemicals suggested I pour half the contents down the drain and let it sit for twenty minutes.  What I decided was to dump the entire bottle into the drain and wait an hour before pouring hot water into the drain.  If some is good, more is clearly better.

I showered again and the water still pooled in the tub.  What.  The.  Fuck.  As a reader of my blog, you’ll know that I participated in a softball tournament this past weekend.  Each night, when I returned home from more than twelve hours of running, sweating, and having baseball dirt cling to my whole body, I came home and washed up, resulting in a tub-full of brownish, muddy water.  I’d no choice but to allow the murky sludge to slowly escape, after which I’d dump a few cups of clean water to rinse out whatever I could.

I’d become tempted to call the property manager.  With my luck, she’d send over a guy.  This guy would then grab a bottle of liquid drain cleaner, read the instructions, then make his own determination as to how this product works best.  Point being, I’d still be standing in muddy water every time I shower.  Ergo, I refrained from reporting the issue.  I’d handle it.

Last night, I had another softball game, beer-league style.  We started the game down 11-0 but put together a 13-run fifth inning and won 16-12.  Hoo.  Ray.  I came home, showered, and then stood and watched as the tub slowly emptied, paying close attention to the swirling whirlpool as it flowed into the pipe.  Until that very moment, I had been missing a key detail.  Something so simple yet vital to the proper drainage of the scummy water.

At some point during my furious cleaning of the shower days before, I’d made contact with the little toggle thingy that closes the drain.  You know, the thing that allows the tub to fill when one wants to take a bath?  Yup.  That thing was in the “up” position.  Motherfucker.

I’m like a caveman.  Not because I’m hairy, though that might be a symptom.  See, any of those lucky, single women who have had the opportunity to both enter my apartment and see me with my shirt removed knows two things: A) I’m sexy as fuck; and B) I’m hairier than said fuck.  The thought even crossed my mind that perhaps the drain had been clogged with ear, nose and shoulder hair that got sloughed off in the showering process.  Not the case.  No, I’m such a caveman that my mind has trouble focusing on more than one thing at a time.

Rob clean.

Rob shower.

Rob not understand water hole.

Rob smash.

For Entertainment Puposes Only. Not a Safety Device.

OK, everything but smash.  Though, I’ve done some smashing…  No, my Neandertal ass never thought to check the damn drain-closer thing (what the fuck is that thing called?).  Instead, I employed harsh chemicals that surely subsequently seeped into the water table and is poisoning babies as we speak.  I’m such a caveman that if I were truly drowning and someone threw me an inflatable life-preserver, I’d read the instructions, ignore the suggested action of placing it around my waist and poke a hole in it just to get a few extra gasps of air before sinking to the bottom.  No, with my luck, I’d sink down and find a drain—closed because some other jackass left the thingy “up.”

Help!  I’m drowning in my own stupidity!!!  I need to find me one o’ dem there smart womens…  What dat read inscrucshens.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Dwayne.

Dwayne who?

Dwayne, Dwayne go away.  Rob handle it.

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