How I Became Funky

Claws belong on Santa, not on a bathtub. I haven't taken a bath since it first dawned on me that I might go down the drain with the water. The idea of sitting in a big white deathtrap with no clothes on is frightening enough already, so whoever decided to put claws on certain bathtubs was either sadistic by nature, or simply too preoccupied with the feet of predatory beasts to care about my personal hygiene.

Sure, a hundred years ago the clawfoot tub was more novelty than necessity. In those days, no one wanted to take a shower because most of the water invariably wound up on the floor, but that was before Hitchcock invented the shower curtain. During initial testing, he often stood just outside the tub in order to measure the effectiveness of his plastic brainchild, asking the tester how she was getting along while picking at his fingernails with a hunting knife. A modified version of his frequent "How ya doin', eh?" queries would later become his trademark opening line as he traveled the globe in search of retail opportunities for his new line of bathroom fixtures.

A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then, and even more down the drains of modern tubs equipped with sliding barriers designed to prevent unwanted flooding. The custom molding that hides the claws of certain ancient bathtubs hasn't yet been adopted by certain owners of certain turn-of-the-century carriage houses that served as apartments for certain tenants who may not live there anymore due to a fear of clawed bathtubs, not to mention being washed down the drain, but I didn't think the place would still smell like that a month after I moved out. Sorry.


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