The Predisastered Pages

Today, our toilet flooded everywhere as I was standing helplessly in the bathroom, totally in the nude. After panicking like a little girl, I turned off the water, called Russell, and got his voicemail.

Then the toilet freaked out a second time, so instead of calling a plumber or any of our five million retired neighbors — gossiping and drinking their mid-morning cocktails in one another’s garages — I ran to Facebook Chat and summoned Amanda, Russell’s co-worker.

There can’t be anything more ridiculous than instant messaging someone about how your toilet is out-of-control. If Hanna-Barbera had to transcribe my chat with Amanda for a television audience, it would’ve looked just like this:

If you have to have a catastrophe, you should at least find the best way to deal with it. I’m all for bad animation and monotone vocals any day of the week.