Once upon a time, Johnson called his wife to say that the Boss was coming for dinner.  It was very short notice, but if he got that big new account, it would mean more hats and aprons and clamps and speculums and pie birds and leather hoods for everyone, so dinner would have to be perfect.

Everything was going fine, but upon scraping some entrails into the garbage disposal, a geiser of spongy tubes and bloody snappers erupted from the drain, and clung to the ceiling, dripping gore.  "Oh, dear," said Mrs. Johnson.  "That's going to be a bitch to clean up!"

In a panic, she hurried upstairs for a quick bowel movement.  She flushed repeatedly, but her steaming loaf would not budge, and when she employed the plunger, an unexpected force grasped from within, and held fast!  Now she had guts all over her kitchen ceiling and a splintering wooden probe jutting out of the toilet.  "My goodness," she sighed.  "What the fuck can go wrong next!"

Then, she tried to wash her hands, and the sink ran coarsely chopped fish heads.  They collected in the basin, oozing a thick fishy aroma and blinking their shiny, vapid eyes.  "Heavens to Betsy," she moaned.  "I guess I'd better call the plumber before the Boss gets a whiff of this shit!"

The plumber came, and his findings were upsetting.

There was a rampant historical Jesus infestation in her kitchen plumbing.  Buddhas stuffed the pipes behind her toilet.  A slender Allah was snaked around the U pipe under her bathroom sink.  And an angry blue Krishna lay coiled just beneath the drain in her bathtub, with a film of soap scum and pubic shavings all over his face.

"Oh, my!" she declared.  "What can I do about all these fucking plumbing deities?"

"I don't know," he said, "But I think you what you really need is an exterminator!"

Now,  you don't get to be the wife of an Junior Executive Supervising Account Logistics Manager at ImportantCo. by giving up at the first sign of trouble, so Mrs. Johnson set to work.

With only an hour left before dinner, she stewed up a pot of entrails and tubers, put on a fresh coat of lipstick and a clean harness, scraped the tentacles off the ceiling, powdered her gills, and lubed up thoroughly.  When the doorbell rang, she looked fresh as a rose and the house smelled invitingly of chum.

But it was not her husband and the Boss on her doorstep.

It was "Bob", who said, "Hello Mrs. Johnson, you've got a problem. You've got Gods in your pipes."

She felt her loins warm slightly, and nodded.

"Wouldn't you rather have pipes in your Gods?"

She drooled just a little, and calmly agreed.

So they fropped together for a while.  Time slowed.  When the doorbell rang again, Mrs. Johnson panicked.  "Oh no, "Bob"!  What about the Boss?"

"Fuck the Boss!" declared "Bob".

So she did, and Johnson got that big new account, and they lived happily ever after amid a house full of brand new shit that they could afford with the promotion money, thanks to "Bob" and his heavenly wisdom.  And now, after a violent spree, when the bodies pile up in the basement, they chop 'em up and feed 'em to Drain Jesus, whose thirst for blood is matched only by his love for the flavor of eggshells and potato peelings and the cool, damp habitat of a kitchen sink.


The end!  Happy Friday!