There is nothing on this earth more dangerous than a grown man trying to build something when he already woke up pissed off and has the patience of a toddler that missed his nap.

Especially when that man is surrounded by hammers.

Nails.

Sharp objects.

And bad decisions.

Your wife?s got you remodelling the bathroom for the fourth time in two years.

Fourth.

Time.

Apparently the vanity no longer speaks to the light fixture and the light fixture is apparently sacred and untouchable.

So now it?s four hundred and eighty-nine dollars for a new vanity. Eight hundred and fifty-two ninety-five for cushion flooring.

Two grand for a tub.

And a toilet that apparently needs to emotionally align with the tub.

All of it is your fuckin problem.

You?re expected to assemble this masterpiece with a level that lies to you.

A hammer bought from a dollar store where hope goes to die.

And nails so bent they look like they?ve already lived a full traumatic life.

You?ve been sweating since noon.

Not normal sweat.

Regret sweat.

Sweat that soaks your shirt and makes you question every decision that led you into that bathroom.

Meanwhile your wife is on the couch.

Calm.

Comfortable.

Watching Rambo.

RAMBO.

Does she not understand that Rambo activates something primal.

Something useless.

Something that makes a man completely incapable of drywall, plumbing, or anything responsible.

You?re only productive during commercials.

Barely.

Every time a commercial hits you hustle like a man trying to beat the countdown clock.

You straighten nails.

Slam boards.

Squint at crooked walls while whispering threats to inanimate objects.

You?re not building.

You?re surviving until the next explosion on TV.

And then it happens.

You can?t find your pencil.

You stop.

You scan.

You swear.

You tear the bathroom apart.

You check your pockets.

You retrace your steps like a detective with anger issues.

You know it?s nearby.

You can feel it mocking you.

Twenty minutes go by.

You missed a good part of the movie.

That?s it.

You stomp back into the living room, defeated, and throw yourself at the couch like it owes you money.

And in less than half a second, your entire life changes.

A lightning bolt of pain shoots straight up your spine.

You launch off the couch, screaming like an animal being dragged into the woods.

You found the pencil.

It was wedged perfectly between the couch cushions.

Sharp end up.

Waiting.

Patient.

Evil.

And now it?s buried in your left ass cheek.

????

Up to the paint.

Your body goes numb.

Not shock numb.

Weaponized numb.

The kind that crawls down the back of your leg and shuts down basic motor skills.

You stumble.

You howl.

You panic.

Using every mirror in the bathroom, you manage to confirm the situation.

Yes. That is a pencil.

Yes. That is your ass.

Yes. That is real life.

Your wife bursts in because the screaming sounds like a murder scene.

She finds you bent over.

Pants around your ankles.

Sweat pouring off you.

Pencil sticking out like some kind of warning sign.

She stares.

Not concerned.

Not sympathetic.

Disgusted.

Like she just caught you doing something you should absolutely never explain.

You beg her.

Voice cracking.

Eyes watering.

You ask her to pull it out.

She decides she married a freak and leaves you alone to deal with your sins.

You consider the hospital.

But then you picture sitting in a plastic chair for three hours answering questions.

So what brings you in today, sir?

And you don?t have the strength for that kind of humiliation.

So you brace yourself.

You grab it.

You pull.

It comes out with a wet hollow pop like a plunger coming off a toilet bowl.

You freeze.

Waiting for blood.

Waiting for darkness.

Nothing.

Just pain.

Numbness.

And a deep awareness that the human ass is made of solid, unforgiving meat.

You walk sideways for weeks.

Sit like you?re hiding something.

And every time you see a pencil, your soul leaves your body for a second.

And the bathroom still isn?t done.

??????????????...and that's callin' it like it is!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Canadian artist & digital troublemaker Colin John Cook shares his louder-than-life, awkward, and honest-as-hell stories. Packed with humour, real talk & creative insights in a no filter, digital comedy space that laughs at life & calls it like it is. He is also the Founder and President of

The Hidden Gallery - Art Studio & Micro Theatre