I’ve finally gotten round to working on the bathroom from the lake of fire. I don’t know what it is about rurals that they’ll lay aside small fortunes to bequeath to a church, but they can’t be bothered to vomit up anything but a ratshack to wash their arse in.
When we were buying this place my wife looked at the bathtub and the toilet, both rusted through to the cast iron and sighed“Not again?!”
Our last house had a similar room, scarcely fit for a frosty October hog killing. It was perched a mere nineteen inches off the ground, and I spent many hours underneath it, wallowing in the dried sporulated excrement of several generations of tobacco strangled throwbacks who could only insert tab A into slot B when they were fucking, and that fucking driven only by the scent of family.
I tried hiring a local plumber there in Oxford, NC, once. It was a thing I never repeated. I believe there are degrees of stupid that might be virulent, and watching this guy “work” made me wonder if inhaling all that dried shit had caused his forebrain to deliquesce. I took to wearing a respirator for a few days from panic, and vowed to learn some aspects of plumbing so I might never have to watch a sausage fingered white ape rummage through a toolbox looking for castoff parts again.
I became that sausage fingered ape, without the consolation of an ever mounting totemic shitpile of cash.
I also learned that plumbing was designed by a malevolent God whose aim is to bend the strong toward madness just for shits and giggles. I am not particularly strong, therefore good for an endless stream of shits and giggles. This god loves it most when I have to braze a pipe suspended overhead, or inhale dessicated fiberglass insulation deeply after slapping my skull against a floor joist in the process of discovering the floor joist is populated by a deliriously happy mass of termites.
Our current house has at least the advantage of plumbing accessible from a standing position in most areas. This bathroom is, by the standards of its age, a cakewalk. But I’m 52, and I don’t give a fuck about dancin’ for no cake much.
Here’s the early phase of demolition. Some people like this part. They are apeshit.