Bleach

Somewhat spontaneously, tonight was declared "Apartment Cleanup Night". Also known as 3.5 hours of suffering. Aaron and Brian took the kitchen, with a little help from yours truly during the marathon floor-scrubbing relay.

Aaron is scrubbing. Sorry, ladies, he's off the market.
Will and I chose to battle the bathroom. This is a bit like saying that Arnold Schwarzenegger, Carl Weathers, and Jesse 'The Body' Ventura chose to fight an invisible alien. In fact, in both cases, the human protagonists were so badly outgunned that they were happy to earn a draw.

I'm not one to dramatize the inane, but in this case I think it's fair to say that Will and I suffered worse than any two men have suffered in the course of human history. We can't even claim victory over the bathroom... we fought to a draw.

Here's the thing... It's not that we're slobs, certainly not moreso than the average 20-something male. We haven't been negligent, and the bathroom was nowhere near catastrophic. It's just that while we've only been living here a year, there have never been any University incentives to keep the dozens of previous occupants from leaving an ever-growing mess.

So tonight, on a whim, we ventured far beyond our usual toilet-brush and Swiffer habits and cleaned. Will attacked the grime in the closet area, and I went spelunking behind and below the toilet.

When cyclists talk about the Pain Cave, they are referring to the area behind and below my toilet. I've seen things, man. I've seen things that can't be unseen. The horror.

While I was wrist-deep in bleach and residue of unknown origin, Will was chipping away at a substance whose history was beyond speculation. We didn't even want to think about it. Somewhere between the topsoil and the Mesozoic crust, Will announced "I think I found dinosaur pubes".

Um, you maybe shouldn't have read this post if you're eating.

Between the late-summer heat, the acrid fumes, and the contents of dozens of filthy Clorox wipes, it was a true test of grit not to puke. Besides, having just cleaned the bathroom, it would have been a shame to ruin my handiwork.

Along those lines, be warned: the next person who tracks dirt into the apartment will be shot on sight. The next person who uses, breathes near, or thinks about thinking about the toilet will be subjected to some sort of torture, most likely a looped mp3 of Celine Dion... and then shot.

I'll tell you what, tasks like this really put the fear of God in a sinner like me. If there is a hell, it certainly looks like this:
My Battlefield, circa minute 40 of 120