So I tend to shower at night. I am a biking fool these days and I am rather foul by the end of my string of 18 hour consciousness.
Last night as I was soaping out my bacteria-laden pits and pondering how sharp my razor was for the inevitable scalp scrape, something caught my eye. In the shower, mold and grime tend to start in the corner, directly below the spigot. The tile pattern is a series of squares, and the mold/grime/human filth cake in the grout between the tiles. This is nothing new to you people. The issue that I was having was that the stuff was moving. It was a gelatinous yet greasy rolling of odd flesh. It was anchored to the corner, yet moving back and forth, almost jumping. Initially, I thought that these were the tricks of the steam, because I keep my shower at the boiling point. It is a threshold that I have to work towards, like a frog in a pot. But I do bring it to the point of scalding blisters, and you know what? It relaxes me. This was no retinal sleight of hand, this was the real deal. The dirty shower had spawned life.
And there it was, brownish-green (like I can even describe the color) and glistening. It was an oleaginous, self-contained splat. It lived because of all of the grime and sweat and lost pubes that so many showers tend to drain. Not in this case. The soiled life form was assembled from all things grubby and myself. Don't forget that I shave my head in the shower, so that added a speckling of hair flecks to the equation. It looked like someone had shook pepper all over it. I also tend to blow my nose and when the moment is right and urinate in the shower as well. All of this added to the little smutty, pubed out glob in the corner.
Comestible it was not. Can you imagine trying to force something this putrid down your throat? I must also mention the mildew. I believe that the mildew itself was the catalyst in the first place. Shit doesn't just spring to life...read your damn Bible. There are forces involved, whether scientific or benevolent, we all can agree that life itself springs forth as a result of factors that aren't easily explained. For the purpose of this blog, I am just going to have to reduce all of the ideas and concepts to one simple theory: My filthy residue contains my DNA. My DNA somehow achieved a level of vulgar intimacy with the mildew and viola, the miracle of life in a dirty shower.
So I squatted, and let the 300 degree water splash me on the back as I leaned forward, naked and vulnerable to observe this young abomination, quivering and lolling in a fresh batch of my daily soilings.
The mossy, yet slick globule was about the size of a child's hand. I say child's hand because a child's hand can be a fist, or any number of shapes. Think of a child's hand in the fist form, flipping you off, because that is what this looked like. The middle finger was a proboscis it seemed at first. But then at the end of it, was an opening. A mouth. And from this mouth thing, came a sound.
"Are you going to vote for Obama?" The pile of almost-shit asked me.
"Pardon?" I asked. The steam around me was almost as thick as cigar smoke, and my pores were so open that I was willing to accept the fact that this was indeed a hallucination of the most unclean sort.
"Barack Obama. Are you going to vote for him?"
I wanted to address how I think that Hillary and Obama should join forces if they really want to see this Bush vampire or any of his hive out of the White House. I wanted to tell this asexual, R-rated Flubber that I have absolutely had it with this country and I am considering moving to France. I wanted to tell the scum about how I am going to have to fill my tank up soon and it was going to be close to four dollars a gallon.
"Who the hell are you going to vote for then? Ron Paul is out." The random short and curly hair spiked abomination in the shower barked.
"Its time for a change." I said. I stood, turned off the water and got out. Reaching for the towel, I began to plot when I would clean the bathroom. This change has to happen soon. The very fabric of our existence depends on it.