The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Let me review the previous episode of Plumbing Hell in case some of you missed it, ignored it or, like me, probably tried to forget it. We had a leak in the upstairs bathroom’s sink, enough to run down through the ceiling into the basement bathroom. No big deal, you’re probably thinking, but if that’s what you were thinking, then I know you are the type of person who dials his cellphone for the closest plumber to come out and fix the problem. For us on the South End, that has never been an option. The trip out and back costs more than whatever was wrong in the first place.

No, we do what our predecessors here in the nettle jungles of the backwash have always done. We shudder, we perspire, we break into palpitations and finally, after an appropriate procrastination, we take a good hard belt from straight from the whisky bottle and without bothering to wipe our chins, we bore in. Tools come out, the cursing starts, the whimpering follows. If you recall, I had no more begun to work on that sink when an obstinate inlet valve snapped off the hot water line, spewing 40 gallons of a fast draining hot water heater onto the floor until I finally got a bucket or actually two under the floodwaters.

Yesterday I reassembled the entire kit and caboodle, what we semi-professional plumbers refer to as the ‘whole shitaree’. Got the valve on okay, lifted the hundred pound century old pedestal sink into position, got the drain pipes reassembled and voila, turned on the taps. And yeah, the same stupid leak was still there. Plus a new one. Sure, I cursed, I cast blame near and far, I wept. But … I knew this was the probable, not the possible, outcome. Plumbing is not a one step venture. It is a journey of a thousand miserable steps.

I’m not going to bore you with a litany of what followed; suffice it to say, the procedure was reversed, more parts were disassembled and since they are a century old, small washer screws inside the brass faucets crumbled and had to be drilled out. Of course the screw threads had dissolved with time too. An experienced hand at plumbing like myself, KNOWS this will happen. It’s why he didn’t replace them the last time even though they were leaking then. This time, however, I dared to tread where others dread, a motto I may copyright for when I incorporate my plumbing bizness.

I’m into the third day, three or four trips to the hardware store, and no, I haven’t rehooked up the water yet. What’s the rush? The mizzus is out of town galavanting in New Orleans, so what if I have company coming in two days. Plenty of time for a pro to make the necessary repairs, clean up the damage, put away the tools and pretend that all is well in the homeland. Picture of idyllic rural living, eh? If things don’t go well, and you and I both know it’s looking iffy as of this moment, the guests can do what I do, wash their hands in the bathtub, brush their teeth over the toilet. At least I’m not making them use the outhouse.

When the Great Orange promised us he’d drain the swamp, I guess some folks thought he’d be cutting waste, encouraging efficiency, removing the dead asses, cleaning up government. A leaner and probably meaner machinery. Instead he hauls in his pals, the rich boyz, and they roll in expecting all those perks they figured every agency head and cabinet secretary has always gotten. Otherwise why would they take a pay cut. These aren’t folks whose value system ranks Public Service at the top of their list of virtues.

Scott Pruitt could be the poster boy for the Swamp Monster. He travels first class on the government dime, coach when he’s paying. He uses his staff to hunt down a sweetheart deal on a D.C. apartment and doesn’t mind that the landlord is the wife of a lobbyist, no conflict of interest there so long as the rent’s cheap. He orders himself up an SUV with bullet proof seat covers. I know, you didn’t realize that was an option at the dealership when you bought your last car. Kevlar in plaid. Pricey, but when you’re as important as the head of the EPA, an agency you are doing your damndest to gut, you worry about pissed off folks maybe drill baby drilling your Chevy with a spray of rounds from an AR-15 equipped with bump stock. He travels in the car with a full security team, runs red lights if he’s in a hurry to get to the opera, detours his planes to Disney, all those activities that the Swamp is notorious for. Mr. Pruitt has champagne tastes to go with his paranoia even as he demotes his staff for questioning the prudence of spending like a drunken sailor.

So when he orders up a custom phone booth, sure, eyebrows were raised. $40K for a bulletproof, soundproof phone booth. Why not? People are listening in. Enemies are eavesdropping. Terrorists may be bugging his Apple. These are dangerous times in government offices, for sure. A man, a very Important man, can’t be too careful. So what’s a guy like this to do??? You got it, he orders up a Cone of Silence. Maxwell Smart, the undercover agent with the clandestine phone in his shoe, but when you need maximum security, he demands, well, he demands the Cone….

Pruitt, the Maxwell Smart of this generation, is equally clueless, equally unapologetic, equally bumbling. His boss is sticking with him, at least for the next 24 hours. After that, who knows? Cones of Silence for every cabinet secretary?? Or just stick with the shoe phones? Calling all alligators….