H2Obroken - 234
Hal Wastes His Wages
July 16, 2007
 

Wow, what a crazy weekend—I went to sleep in Hoboken, New Jersey only to wake up in a Third World country. But instead of some zany drunken airline mishap, all I did was sleep in my own bed.

Ever since the Ancient Babylonians began pumping the crap right out of their houses, societies have become quite accustomed to, if not dependent upon, the amenity we call running water. Well apparently some overzealous contractor made the mistake of tapping into a rather vital artery in Hudson County’s water supply last Saturday, flushing us straight on back to the Stone Age. And while I’m all for ripping said contractor a new one, I’m sure it’s been done by now. So I’ll exhibit some uncharacteristic restraint by merely stating that “these things happen.” The drip-headed reaction of our citizenry in the wake of this watershed event, however, exhibited a flood of ignorance and idiocy.

Having worked until 4 a.m. Saturday morning, by the time I got up and at ‘em around 1:00 p.m. I came to realize that my water had broken, a statement meaning nothing in reference to the significant bulge seemingly gestating within my mid torso, but rather the significant absence of running water in my apartment. Having spent time in Latin America, I considered it to be no big deal at the time. I simply practiced the “if it’s yellow, let it mellow” principle and went down to the local bodega for a gallon of water. It was a lot like camping, in that I didn’t have the means to shave or shower, and I was cool with that. A little Speed Stick and some Listerine took care of the major funk, and I would have been content with that, were it not for the fact that I had to work in the bar later that night.

The hospitality industry is rather dependent upon clean running water for it’s washing up and flushing down. Additionally, equipment such as soda guns and ice machines also require a steady, reliable flow. After bringing up plastic cups, grabbing a sleeve of ice from Sparrow (126 Washington St.) some Coke, Club and 7-Up from Hoboken Farm (300 Washington St.), and posting signs on the toilets, I figured we had done all we could do. Well within 2 hours of opening, some jackass sprinted past the bartender, bombed one of the stalls and ran back out the door to his apartment across the street, signaling the war was underway.

After hours without water in their own homes, Hoboken’s spoiled brats decided to come out and bitch about the lack of water in a bar a block away.

“Hey, did you know your toilets aren’t working?”

Yes, that’s why there’s a sign on the door…

“Whaaaah…why can’t I have tonic?”

Because I don’t want you to die from waterborne intestinal parasites—at least not when I’m liable…

“Boo-hoo… what’s with the plastic?”

We’re unable to wash our glasses without clean running water, but I could still smash one over your head if you’d like…

“Hmmm…I can’t have a vodka and cranberry because there’s no cranberry? Okay, then how about a Sex on the Beach?”

You know what, just start $*@%!^& running…NOW!!!

Way to stick together and overcome this thing, Hoboken. Let’s hope we never have to endure another tragic loss of tonic water in our lifetime. And to the fecal terrorist who considered it a rational, neighborly thing to race into the pub across from his apartment and blow up the toilet, I hope karma dictates a scorching case of hemorrhoids in your very near future. 

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