Chapter 10: Freebasing the great divining rod.



Morty woke up, fully clothed, on top of his bed. He was lying on his back, with his fingertips pressed tightly together, and his wrists resting on his chest. He eyeballs were dry. He had no idea where he had been. He came to a quick moral quandry because he wasnt sure how to change into his fancy suit from his sleeping garments because he had slept in his fancy suit. These truly are the questions of our days.

Morty got up regardless, disheveled. His sort pink dress shirt no longer accentuated his shiny teeth. His tie knot sagged, and he had apparently not shaved for quite some time, though not enough to get the legally qualified “Montana Beard Discount”. His carrot jar was empty, but his apartment was immaculate.

“Gotta stay spiffy,” Morty said to himself, and walked crotch-first into his desk.

Finally kicking off his shoes, he stumbled into the bathroom. It was dingy yellow and appeared to be made of a single piece of plastic.

In fact it was. It was product #15837B of Atlantic Bathrooms, Inc. Located in Detroit. An entrepreneur realized that if you combined the machinery to make baby cages and the machinery to make cars you could make giant machines that make single piece bathrooms. They were actually made out of the recycled medical implants of reclaimed orphans, and their clothing. Other plentiful public sources of bathroom grade plastic came from retiring dolphin nets made of six pack holders that were used in the great lakes. People in the Midwest thought they could catch dolphins there. In a lake so polluted that you can set it on fire.

Anyway, Atlantic Bathrooms, Inc had virtually re-invented the modern broke-ass singles apartment lifestyle with the self contained bathroom. With this design, they were able to construct apartment buildings based around the single constant commodity: the water. With this mindset, they were able to work with Conglomerated Construction, Ltd to create a fleet of apartment buildings based around a cheap, mass manufactured, replaceable bathroom, while keeping the living quarters so cramped that it was supremely difficult for even one person to be in. Because of this, the places were usually empty, or the tenants were sleeping. Electricity and fuel requirements were kept to a minimum, the occupants usually ate out or had prepared meals. Little more than a small TV was necessary, and the occupants slept in whatever bed could fit.

The bathrooms were pure utility, a simple toilet, with a single joint on the seat, the rest fused to the floor. A small sink, and a shower with a curtain, but no barrier. All drains went to the center of the room. Atlantic Bathrooms had decided that it was more cost efficient, in the case of a sink or toilet overflow, to have a central drain, but too expensive to have a separate drain for the shower. They were sunk into the building, so there was a 4.3 inch step into the bathroom, so water would not overflow.

They were always clean, polished, and neat. Because they had automated spray hoses that covered the one-piece bathroom in bleach and rinsed it down the central drain with scalding hot water.

Which is, unfortunately, what they were doing when Morty walked in fully clothed.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” said Morty.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” he continued.

“MY EYES AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Fortunately, the walked in at the end, so his suit only got splattered with bleach, and his eyes were only blasted with scalding water. He backed out of the bathroom, but caught his heel on the raised edge, tripped back and hit the small of his back against the sharp corner of his kitchen counter (did I mention that in Minnesota, it is legal to make your bathroom open directly into your kitchen?).

Morty, thoroughly defeated by the world 73 seconds after waking up from a blackout, fell to his knees screaming, his scalded tear-ducts weeping steam.

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