Don't Throw Cat Litter in Your Toilet - Not Even Once

Recently I succumbed to temptation—or stupidity. More accurately, a healthy combination of both. I dumped clumping cat litter into our basement toilet.

I'd temporarily moved our cat's litter box from the basement storage room into the basement bathroom. One evening, while scooping it out, I decided that instead of using one of our increasingly scarce plastic grocery bags, I'd toss a single clump into the toilet and flush it. I swear the clump was no bigger than half the palm of my hand.

I knew instantly I'd made a mistake.

The toilet didn't flush. Instead, the bowl filled to the brim.

"Well... that's not good," I muttered as I reached for the plunger.

Half a dozen plunges later, the water had gone down only slightly. More plunging, more splashing, and eventually it receded to about its normal resting level. Thinking the flush itself might push the clog through, I tried again.

Nope.

The bowl filled again, this time stopping just shy of overflowing.

At that point my wife asked, "Did you throw cat litter in the toilet?"

Busted.

I turned to YouTube and quickly discovered I wasn't alone. Apparently plenty of people have made the exact same mistake. The most common advice was to pour hot—but not boiling—water into the bowl to soften the clumped litter. Boiling water could crack the toilet. Best not to make a bad situation even worse. 

After six or seven buckets of hot water, the toilet finally flushed.

Sort of.

The bowl emptied, but it ended with a suspicious glug... glug... glug instead of its usual confident whoosh. I optimistically declared victory.

"I think we're good."

The next morning proved otherwise.

The first flush backed the toilet up almost to the rim again. By the time I left for work, the water had slowly drained away, so I convinced myself the clog had finally worked loose. I poured in another bucket of hot water and flushed.

Same result.

I closed the lid and decided Future Me could deal with it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Two or three days later I tried again.

Still clogged.

Twenty... maybe thirty plunges accomplished absolutely nothing. More buckets of hot water? Also, nothing.

Honestly, I shouldn't have been surprised. This clumping litter bonds to the bottom of the litter box like concrete. Why did I think it would magically dissolve inside a toilet?

I figured I had three options.

First, call a plumber.

No thanks. That's expensive, and I was convinced this was something I could fix myself.

Second, buy a toilet auger.

Also no. They're not cheap, and this was hopefully a one-time disaster. Besides, returning a plumbing tool after you've used it feels... wrong.

That left option three: pull the toilet.

The hardest part wasn't removing it—it was getting all the water out first. Two shop-vac loads later I noticed the tank kept slowly refilling because the shutoff valve wasn't shutting off completely.

Lovely.

I shut off the water to the house and opened the sink faucets to drain the plumbing. Unfortunately, the toilet's supply line sat lower than the sinks, so about a gallon of perfectly clean water emptied itself onto the linoleum before everything finally stopped.

After repairing the leaky valve cartridge, I turned the water back on—with the toilet valve still closed—vacuumed out the remaining water, removed the tank, and finally lifted the bowl.

I tipped it over expecting to find a giant wad of cat litter.

Nothing.

Great.

Next,  I poured a bucket of hot water into the floor drain. It disappeared without backing up.

Whew.

That meant the house drain was fine. The clog had to be inside the toilet itself.

I carried the bowl outside and set it down on a, no pun intended, wooden stool with the drain hole exposed. 

I filled the bowl with water from the garden hose, then dumped a bucket of water into it. Instead of flowing freely, it backed up exactly as it had for the past week.

Aha.

The clog was definitely inside the toilet.

I shoved the garden hose into the bowl and turned it on full blast.

Nothing.

I flipped the bowl over and blasted water from the other direction.

Still nothing, except a lot of water spraying back at me.

Running out of ideas, I straightened a wire coat hanger and fed it into the outlet on the bottom. About six inches in, I hit something solid.

Progress.

After ten or so determined jabs, I pulled the hanger back out.

It was coated with cat litter that had transformed into something resembling soft concrete.

Seriously, what is this stuff made of?

More poking.

More blasting with the hose.

Then suddenly...

Splash.

A satisfying rush of water shot through the toilet, followed by a surprisingly large chunk of gray litter that was easily twice the size of what I'd originally flushed. Apparently that tiny clump had grown into its own geological formation.

I stood there soaked in sweat, hose and toilet water, staring at the innocent-looking pile of gray sludge while silently questioning my life choices.

After thoroughly cleaning and sanitizing the bowl, I carried it back inside, reinstalled everything, and gave it the moment of truth.

It flushed perfectly.

The same powerful flush that had convinced me, in a moment of spectacular overconfidence, that it could handle anything.

It couldn't.

Lesson learned.

Never flush clumping cat litter.

Not even once.

1983 Oldsmobile 98 - Bruh, it's An Oldsmobile 98

This 45,000-mile, 1983 Oldsmobile 98 Regency came up recently on Marketplace for sale over in Cleveland. Poster of the ad claims they "brought it up" from North Carolina last year and it's rust free. That's saying something given its a forty-three-year-old General Motors anything. Especially up here where we marinate our vehicles in a salty-brine nine-months out of the year. Asking price is $12,000. Wow. This worth that? 

Hard to figure. Some online pricing tools and A.I. say it's fairly priced if on the higher end of the price range; NADA value pegs this at around $3,500. Quite the spread. The problem with online pricing for cars like this is that condition and rarity get confused with desirability. A 45,000-mile, rust free Regency is rare, that doesn't automatically make it valuable. 

For my twelve-grand, this better be pretty close to perfect and this thing is not. Appears to be in good condition but the asking price is pie-in-the-sky. Twelve thousand? Bruh, it's a 1983 Olds 98 for crying out loud. 

I bet the poster of the ad paid $3,500 to "bring it up here" and they're attempting to not only recoup what they put into it and fixing to turn a tidy profit too. Can't blame them for that. You may want to examine the head of someone who'd pay anywhere near the asking price for this, though. 

They've had the transmission rebuilt which begs the question if they bought it like that; that's a good $3,000 repair. New carburetor's been installed too and they're throwing in the original Rochester "Quadrajet", four-barrel carb with it.  They "upgraded" the speakers and swapped the GM Delco radio out for a blue tooth unit; I wish they hadn't done that but the unit they put in isn't the most offensive looking thing. Air blows cold they say but the cruise control doesn't work and the passenger seat apparently has some tears in it. You can't see in the photos they posted. 

Twelve thousand? At least it's a hoity-toity, "Regency". 

Back in the olden days, an Oldsmobile 98 was literally and figuratively a big deal. A bargain-basement Cadillac, the "Regency" was the top-of-the-line, top-of-the-line Oldsmobile.  Oldsmobile introduced the Regency package with its signature pillow-top seats in 1972 to commemorate their 75th-anniversay. They sold so well they kept it around through the end of "Ninety-Eight" production in 1996. Oldsmobile went from designating these cars from "98" to "Ninety-Eight" in 1991. Talk about rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. 

Literal big car lover I was back in the day, I test drove one of these around 1986 or 1987. It failed to impress me in any way and left me feeling confused; why was it not the transcendental experience I thought it would be? 

You know, like the first time you drive a Mercedes-Benz or BMW. You're like, "oh, I get it. This is what they're talking about".  The bigger question is, the hell did I ever see in these things in the first place? It didn't handle well, the pillow top seats were uncomfortable, and it was very underpowered. 

The famous ad wizard Jim Wangers is credited with saying, "You can sell a young man's car to an old man but you can't sell an old man's car to a young man." That may or may not be true. Who knows. What I do know for sure is that I've gotten older, my taste in cars has gotten younger. 

2006 Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS - The Last Monte Carlo

It's been three years since I parted ways with my beloved—but long-in-the-tooth, rusty, semi-trusty—2002 Dale Earnhardt Chevrolet Monte Carlo SS. Sigh.

Funny, I loved "The Dale" despite everything that was wrong with it, much to the horror of NASCAR fans. Rust had finally gotten the best of "him", but it was time to move on anyway after owning five GM W-body coupes dating back to 1990. Even this very cherry 2006 Monte Carlo SS with just 48,000 miles can't sway me. There are several reasons why, not the least of which is its nearly $20,000 asking price.

Chevrolet introduced this generation of Monte Carlo for 2000 and gave it a substantial update for the 2006 model year. Changes included a stiffer body structure, revised front sheet metal, a redesigned interior, and, most importantly, a completely new lineup of engines.

Gone were the old 60-degree 3.4-liter and 90-degree 3.8-liter V-6s, replaced by the newer 60-degree 3.5- and 3.9-liter V-6s. Most importantly—he lowers his voice—SS models received the 303-horsepower LS4 5.3-liter V-8.

The LS4 was essentially a Frankenstein version of GM's LS V-8, modified for front-wheel-drive duty. Pontiac also used it in the 2005-2008 Grand Prix GXP, Buick offered it in the 2008-2009 LaCrosse Super, and, last and least, Chevrolet stuffed it into the 2006-2009 Impala SS.

If the LS4 has an Achilles' heel, it's Active Fuel Management, which constantly switches between four- and eight-cylinder operation under varying loads to save fuel. It's a great idea in theory, but in practice it's a somewhat thumpy, stumbly system that detracts from the driving experience.

You can disable it, but none of the solutions are especially simple. You can plug an OBD-II disabler into the diagnostic port, though that may trigger the check-engine light. You can have the ECU custom tuned—good luck finding someone willing to do that these days—or you can perform a full mechanical delete. Either way, it's hardly a Sunday afternoon garage project.

You'd think I'd be all about having 303 horsepower under my right foot, and to a point, you'd be right. But my experience with powerful cars is that you quickly become accustomed to the acceleration and start taking it for granted. Worse, you rarely use all that power because gasoline and tires aren't getting any cheaper.

A car that handles well, on the other hand, rewards its driver every time it's driven.

Sadly, these Monte Carlo SSs are not handlers.

They certainly look like they should carve up canyon roads, and they can hustle along at a respectable pace, but not in a way that leaves you grinning afterward. Even with the vaunted FE3 sport suspension, you never really feel connected to the car, let alone the road. They bob and float in ways that are surprisingly reminiscent of a 1970s Monte Carlo.

Ironically, "The Dale" had a more planted, grounded feel than these overpowered posers. That's one of the reasons I loved, err, "him" as much as I did.

Of all the cars GM fitted with the LS4, the only one I ever thought was truly worth the effort was the Pontiac Grand Prix GXP. Thanks to its staggered front tires and substantially thicker anti-roll bars, the GXP is genuinely entertaining to drive.

And if you're going to cram a V-8 producing 323 lb-ft of torque into a front-wheel-drive platform that was never designed for it, you might as well finish the job.

My problem with the GXP—and I've come close to buying one more than once—is that I just can't do no four-door sedan as my daily driver. This hillbilly's gots standards. 

You could transform this Monte Carlo into something much closer to a Grand Prix GXP by fitting the wider front tires and swapping in the GXP's significantly thicker anti-roll bars front and rear. While you're at it, have the ECU retuned to eliminate Active Fuel Management.

But after all that, you're looking at spending well north of the already steep $20,000 asking price...

...for a twenty-year-old car.

He swallows hard.

 

1972 Chrysler Newport Custom - If You Guys Say So

Seeing the poor sales of Chrysler's 1969 to 1973 "fuselage" model, seems I'm not alone in feeing ambivalent (at best) towards them. Still, when one as nice looking as this 1972 Chrysler Newport Custom comes up for sale on Marketplace, I can't help but give it its moment in the spotlight. Or sunshine as the case may be. 

The fuselage design ethos was meant emulate an aircraft; that's lost on me even when it's pointed out in their advertising brochures. Well, if you guys say so. 

Through my foggy goggles, these cars have always looked unfinished. It's as though "suits upstairs" stopped designers in their tracks and ordered anything they had done to that point into showrooms for 1969. 

This rear "three-quarters" angle accentuates it's "unfinished-ness". That is one gigantic, all but feature-free quarter panel. 

It's long hood, long deck, on all but the same plane, looked dated compared to the more concave, long hood, short (ish) deck of GM designs as well. Those rims don't work on this either and what's with the red stripe tires? Fear not, the car comes with two-sets of rims although there are not details on what the other set is. Let's assume steel wheels with chrome factory wheel covers. No word on if the other rims have tires on them or not. 

         

Although the poster of the ad can't verify it, supposedly, this car has less than eight-thousand-miles on it; they "believe it to be so". Asking price is a cool $25,000. I know. Sounds like a ton and it is, but it's in line with what other full-size cars of this era in this kind of condition are in. Actually, it's a bit of a bargain. Well, only a bargain if you like these cars. Damn, that dash is so plasticky it's triggering my childhood PTSD. 

Under hood we have Chrysler's new-for-1972, 400 cubic inch V-8; essentially a bored out 383. To make up for any loss of poke due to emissions plumbing, The Big Three's solution was bigger engines. To some extent that worked, did nothing for fuel-economy, though. I'd figure seven- or eight-miles per gallon around town, ten-, eleven-mpg highway. Your mileage may vary, see dealer for details. 

You could get dual exhaust on a 1972 Newport, but that was only on cars with the 440 V-8. Again, this one has a 400. No points off here for these dual pipes, but I'd go over the documentation with a fine-toothed wire brush as to what's been updated on this before you hit the cash machine. 

Interior looks nice and clean if not a tad industrial. Maybe this does have just eight-thousand miles on it.

The Newport nameplate was around at Chrysler off-and-on from 1940 through 1981 and it denoted different types of models. Stylishly experimental in 1940 and 1941, hard tops in 1949 and 1950 and from 1961 through 1981, the Chrysler division's least expensive, full-size car 

1980 Plymouth Arrow - Youth is Wasted on the Young

Often times, old cars make great time machines. This 1980 Plymouth Arrow showed up in my Facebook Marketplace feed recently and I was whisked back to 1983 when I was shopping for a car to replace my first car, my pathetic 1974 Mercury Comet. 

Ultimately, the car I would buy would be my less dreadful but still awful 1975 Chrysler Cordoba. Along the way to Corinthian Leather town, though, my search took some unusual twists and turns. I test drove a somewhat ratty, but fun-to-drive, V-8 powered 1976 Chevrolet Monza and a low-mileage, fairly clean, $900, 1979 Plymouth Arrow that was very similar to this freakishly nice 1980. 

These sold new for about $3900, but their resale values were terrible. Hence, that '79 Arrow I test drove had such a low asking price. In 1983, finding a four-year-old car for just $900 was uncommon. 

Naturally, this big car loving, red-blooded American boy passed on it. Despite its nimble handling, superior maneuverability, and much better fuel economy. What's more, by the early 1980s, Japanese automakers had established a reputation for sparkling build quality and reliability. The Arrow, though sold as a Plymouth, was built by Mitsubishi.

In the four-plus years I had my Cordoba, I don't think it went more than three-months at a time without something catastrophically breaking on it. It was also slow, handled like a truck and got terrible gas mileage. The kicker is it didn't even have Corinthia Leather. 

I have to dig deep in my memory banks to remember why I passed on the Arrow, but it was probably because I didn't think it "cool" enough. That and that I knew I could get the Cordoba from a friend's parents for a couple a hundred less. $200 was nothing to sneeze at when you're making $3.10 an hour slinging hash in the cafeteria of the local hospital. 

I know, I know. How could someone who was 19 years old at the time and had a penchant for automobiles think a Cordoba was cooler than a Plymouth Arrow. Well, let's be fair, it's not like this is the most "rad" car on the planet either. While the design is quasi-interesting, there's also a dork-factor to it that's hard to quantify, I could argue that my Cordoba was less dweeby, although a vastly inferior car. 

Desperately needing an entry in the subcompact market to compete with Chevrolet's Vega and Ford's Pinto in the sub-compact class, lacking the funds to make one of their own, from 1976 through 1980, Chrysler bought these cars from Mitsubishi, they were known as the "Celeste" in Japan, and rebadged them as "Arrow". 

For $6,990, I could go literally back in time now and do what I should have done forty-plus years ago; bought that little Arrow for just $900. This one has a new carburetor, clutch, brake lines, coil, battery and fresh paint. After market sunroof too. Poster of the ad bought it from someone who spent thousands to get it into this shape. I believe it. 

You know, whoever was first to say that youth is wasted on the young sure knew what they were talking about. 

1979 Lincoln Continental Town Car - Mo Money Mo Problems

In 1975, The Ford Motor Company's Lincoln division updated the Continental's they introduced in 1970 with these even more so slab-sided monsters. The 1970 Continentals replaced Elwood Engle's legendary 1961 to 1969 models with their famed rear-hinged, "suicide doors". I found this 1979 Continental Town Car "Collector's Series" while at an open house with my wife recently just west of downtown Cleveland, Ohio. 

                                      

Seems the only thing longer than the car itself is its name; "Lincoln Continental Town Car Collectors Series". Sheesh. That's a mouthful. That's saying something too given at 233-inches long, this was not only the longest car you could buy in this country in 1979, but it was also the longest car Lincoln ever sold. 

Lincoln charged about twice the sticker price for these "Collector's Series" that commemorated the last year for this version of the Continental before the old shrink-ray got 'em. These cars couldn't hit federally mandated fuel economy standards for 1980, so Lincoln had no choice but to significantly downsize the Continental Town Car, Town Coupe and Continental Mark. With just 3,900 "Collectors" sold out of roughly 77,000 Town Cars sold in 1979 though, seems we're rubbing bumpers here with some pretty rare company. 

Buyers who ponied up the extra cabbage for one of these got exclusive paint schemes with a color-keyed vinyl roof, gold-colored trim (note the subtle gold hue of the front grille), turbine-style cast-aluminum wheels, and every optional piece of disco era doo-daddery available, including a CB radio and an electronic AM/FM four-speaker stereo system with a Quad-8 tape player. Breaker-breaker, who's got a Tony Bennett 8-track they can loan me?

Underneath, the Collector Series was the same softly sprung, impossible to maneuver, underpowered bomb "lesser" models were. There was no engine or suspension upgrade available; just as well as nobody bought these for their ability to pull Gs or their quarter-mile prowess. Nor did they care these were little more than tarted up Ford LTD's. 

This car definitely has a "presence" about it, though, plebian LTD's, which had been already downsized for 1979, don't. Whatever that means in this context is anyone's guess and whether that's a good thing or not a matter of opinion. When I was a kid growing up on Long Island's "South Shaw", I was impressed by people who drove cars like this because they meant, "money". 

Up on the tonier, haughtier "North Shaw", and you say that with your jaw clenched tight, by the end of the 1970's, a Mercedes-Benz denoted money although there's no guarantee that someone up there had any more money in the bank than us poor slobs down on the South Shaw did. Although, their "money" could go around corners with at least some degree of aplomb. 

As a kid who grew up wanting for everything, still comes as surprise to me that many people I know that appear to have money have significant money problems. Additionally, having money, doesn't mean you don't have problems. As they say, "Mo money, Mo problems". 

While I'm not a fan of these big Lincolns, most big old Ford's too, it is nice to see one in this kind of shape outside of some car show. No doubt there's some story here as to how this big old "Townie" has 47 years; I think it had temp tags I'd guess it's a southern car. The current owner taking advantage of the two, maybe three weeks up here we call summer.