On the bright side, however, it generates more suckage than I've ever seen in a toilet. I mean, this thing sucks. Forget dead goldfish--you could flush a German shepherd out to sea. The only time it ever get clogged is on those rare occasions that you run out've toilet paper at 3 AM and are reduced to using paper towels for neccessary functions. Then there's a titanic struggle, with the part of Captain Ahab played by the lumberjack on the Brawny wrapper, pitting his absorbant powers against the Great White Bowl. Generally Moby John triumphs, but every now and again there's an upset and I have to get out the toilet plunger. Call me Ishmael.
All of which leads up to an embarassing tale. Some years ago, preparing to shower, I made use of the facilities, flushed, and began disrobing. Balanced on one foot between the catbox and the scalding hot radiator, I could only watch in horror as my sock, obviously suicidal, lunged off my foot, soared through the air, and dove into the high-speed flume-ride of the flushing toilet. I don't know what it hoped to achieve--perhaps it was seeking freedom, or perhaps it just wanted to end it all. Possibly it was tired of its relationship with the other sock and wanted to do something wild. I guess we'll never know.
Naively thinking that this was a universal experience, I mentioned it in passing to my dear buddy Alexis, who's finally honed killer instincts and love of snuggy footwear has caused her to bring up Sockgate fairly regularly. You'd think I was the only one who'd ever sent a sock to a watery grave. And so, dear readers, I'm appealing to you all--tell me I'm not alone! Tell me if you, too, have flushed a sock, or underwear, or a three piece suit, any article of clothing will do. I can't be the only one!