Twenty minutes later, Kevin sat on the edge of the bathtub, defeated. The bathroom floor was a swamp. The cute duck plunger floated mournfully. And in the bowl, the Great Logjam remained, a monument to poor life choices.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then, the sound of a heavy sigh. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. And son? For the love of God, open a window.”

The wire hanger was his last stand. He straightened it, took a deep breath, and plunged his arm into the abyss. The sensation was warm. And wrong. He fished around, trying to break up the monolithic deposit, but it was like trying to stab a stone with a toothpick.

He finally called the landlord. “Mr. Henderson,” he whimpered. “The toilet in 4B… it’s stopped up.”

He did. And as the humid July air mixed with the lavender-poopy breeze, Kevin made a silent vow. No more burritos. And from now on, he’d buy the good plunger.

Desperate, Kevin resorted to the internet. “How to unclog toilet with poop” he typed frantically. The results were judgmental. Dish soap. Hot water. A wire hanger.