The kitchen sink looked down inside its own plumbing, listening to the man in the living room. The man who lived there. The man who tended to spend most of his off duty time writing war poems to his ex-wife, drinking Canadian whiskey, and watching old Sci Fi shows on TV. The same guy who didn’t like walking up stairs when he had to pee, and being that the toilet was on the 2nd floor, the man, this goddamn man, had taken to peeing in the kitchen sink.
The kitchen sink sat there like it had to, listening to the TV, tensing like a molested squirrel whenever a break would appear in the dramatic tension of the story because these were the kind of places the Networks tended to run commercials.
The kitchen sink hated commercials because it was during the commercials that the goddamn mutilator of proper urinary etiquette tended to do most of his pissing.
As the kitchen sink sat in itself flinching at the outrageous amount in which he hated those fucking commercials it could hear, sounds from the living room…….that Captain Kirk was no longer trying to fuck something. He’d been hitting on a sexy alien a minute ago. But he wasn’t doing that anymore.
Kirk and the alien woman were gone. They’d been replaced by a commercial. Which meant Kirk and the alien were fucking. (Whenever you’re watching Star Trek and they stop playing Star Trek and cut to a commercial it’s because Kirk’s most likely fucking something)
Kirk was fucking something now. And while Kirk fucked off screen a quiet woman on TV warned Americans that not supporting fracking is like not supporting not supporting abortions. The political ad has been funded by a group of billionaires with the collective balls to trademark words like ‘morality’ and ‘Jesus’ and ‘charity thongs’.
The kitchen sink had long ago disbanded its tolerance for society.
The kitchen sink had also long ago never tolerated this in the first place, ‘this’ being getting pissed on by a middle aged private investigator with a dick shaped like an out of work side kick.
The side kick was approaching now, dangled as it was from above, humming a stiff tune and staring into the sink’s drain like Jeff Bridges used to look at Michelle Pfeiffer.
One night not too long ago the quesadilla maker that nobody fucking used anymore had asked the kitchen sink what it was like getting pissed on night after night.
“I mean, the shameless bastard turns the light on and I’m up here on top of the fridge and I’m watching and it’s like, ew. You know what I mean?” the quesadilla maker had not been cleaned in a long time and it had thin sheets of crusted cheese hanging off it as it flapped its mouth. “It’s just so fucking rude.”
To the question of what it was like to be pissed on the kitchen sink told the quesadilla maker it was like having to suck Ben Affleck’s dick while humming the soundtrack to Good Will Hunting.
“It makes me feel like a toilet,” the kitchen sink told the quesadilla maker, “and not a kitchen sink.”
Meanwhile, in the current time line: urine began to flow from the averagely sized penis which hovered above the drain hole. Piss splattered. The quesadilla maker began to sob like Matt Damon. Silverware quaked.
It almost never helps to scream but the sink was doing it anyway.
The kitchen sink was screaming, but because its vocal chords were un-human the scream sounded exactly like a drunken private investigator peeing in a goddamn kitchen sink.