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6.24.2002 | link |


there once was a little boy named marcus. in his four short years, marcus had already achieved a curious notoriety among the circle of friends his parents managed to keep.

whenever anyone dared extend an invitation to marcus' family, it was understood that the entire household had to undergo a ceremonial cleansing. this is not exactly how it sounds. you see, for the few hours that marcus would be in the home, soap--yes, soap--was an endangered species. all evidence of soap had to be washed away. so irish springs and coasts were evacuated from showers and baths. seashells and starfish were whisked from bathroom counters. even the economy packs were swiped from under sinks.

but it was a futile effort. because despite all strategy and preparation, despite careful supervision, despite specific assignments for older children to watch and/or shadow him at all times--the outcome was inevitable. somehow, without detection, little marcus would manage to disappear between 3rd course and coffee. like a commando, he would raid drawers and cabinets. he'd pounce onto hampers and crawl on his belly under beds. he'd squeeze his 4-year-old fingers behind dressers and between mattresses. he'd scour every last possible hiding place until he found every last hidden, beautiful bar.

then marcus would make his way to a bathroom and lock himself in. he'd carefully line up his loot on the counter. from smallest to largest. and one by one he'd unwrap them, drop them down the toilet, watch them sink to the bottom, and promptly flush each soap-after-oatmeal-lavender-tea-tree soap.

amazingly, marcus never once clogged a toilet. and the soap was never missed until long after marcus' family had gone home, the dishes had all been cleared, the leftovers saran-wrapped, and marcus was tucked away in his own little bed.

the following morning around 10 AM, marcus' mother would get the dreaded phone call. soap-boy had struck again. and when asked about it, marcus would simply shrug. all efforts to scold, discipline, or reason were in vain.

some said that it probably started out as a child's experiment that soon turned into a game of wits. others thought he despised bathing so much that it must be some kind of ritual execution. and a few even suggested that perhaps he had musical genius, and reveled in the acoustics as each soap plopped into the water.

to this day, no one can offer a viable explanation for his fascination for soap-flushing. and they still think of little marcus, whenever they rub their two hands together under the tap.

true story.

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