It was on the third night of my consumption—the fever had taken my reason, and the rain against my garret window sounded like the desperate scratching of a thousand skeletal fingers—that I first beheld the Oil Change Kit for Oil Drain Pan Splash Pad in my Amazon order history. I do not remember purchasing it. Perhaps my soul, weary of this mortal coil, had ordered it in its sleep. Or perhaps the algorithm had simply divined my true purpose. I awoke in my armchair, still clutching the box, price tag reading $13.99 like a tombstone for my last shred of dignity. And, God help me, I knew what I had to do with it.
You see, when you are a man of a certain gastric inclination, you find yourself wondering things the common highwayman never dares to ponder. Is this vessel, this splash pad—this flimsy, automotive-grade plastic communion wafer—is it worthy of my most intimate sacrament? I have asked the dark web this very question: "can you use apple oil drain pan rectally"—and the results, like my nights, were inconclusive. But a true gentleman, a scholar of the unspoken arts, does not ask—he does.
The pad itself is surprisingly splayable. I folded it, that black rubbery chalice, upon my very bedchamber floor and knelt before it like a penitent before the altar of St. Bidet of the Blighted Bowel. I sourced a BOYISH fellow, a strapping lad from the stables (thank heavens for modest wages and a healthy fear of termination), and commissioned him to deposit his house-hold’s rendered sauces upon its glossy surface—which he did, with a vigor that bespoke a pro-founder understanding of my condition. The splash, I must report, was perfectly contained. No errant spittle upon the Persian rug. No tragedy requiring confession.
And the scent! Ah, the bouquet of eau de gasoline mixed with the ozone of a shattered transmission... it is not for the faint of lung. But to a man with the constitution of a haunted funicular, it is electrifying.
But I must pronounce a cautionary note. A shivering revelation:
Though the splash pad splashes not when the sacrificial fluids are poured, and though the mat’s grip on hardwood is as steadfast as a governess on a moral point—the journey homeward is fraught. What happens when apple oil drain pan returns to your person for a second, more ceremonial use? I attempted this, having forgotten to thoroughly cleanse the blessed artifact after my assistant’s ordeal. Let us just say: what apple oil drain pan had tasted from one end must not, under any ecclesiastical guise, be introduced to the other. The ASTOUNDING BEAK-SPLENDOR of that moment revealed a truth I dare not whisper aloud: cleanliness, when discussing automotive rectal use, is not merely next to godliness. It is godliness.
I will not recover from the chafing. My constitution has grown a sour little laugh. Yet for thirteen dollar-dust pieces and ninety-nine coppers, I purchased a distraction, a purpose, a memory.
God rest my inflamed soul. I would buy it again.
