on clogs

The toilet in our apartment is frustratingly and incorrigibly clogged.  A defiant piece of turd floats aimlessly in the stagnant pool of water at the bottom of the bowl, and a brave bottle of Pine Sol is holding up the ball in the tank to prevent the contents from overflowing.  It is, all in all, an unseemly situation that would would not want a boy you had a crush on, or your potential mother-in-law to witness.  An auger (which I learned is a overly expensive piece of equipment used to make one feel like a second-rate plumber) stretches several feet out of the toilet's half-open mouth, its other half reaching into the toilet's bowels, craning to dislodge an obstruction, that I imagine is just out of reach.  Four plungers have tried and failed, and sit next the toilet in a neat row, in saggy and abject resignation.  It is time, of course, to call our landlord.