Every week, my mom and I embark on a familiar errand: the quest for new toilet seats at Home Depot. It’s a saga filled with mild anxieties about home aesthetics and the perpetual rescheduling dance familiar to many. This week, however, the hardware store held more than just bathroom fixtures. Our trip to Home Depot became an unexpected adventure, all thanks to a startling seven-and-a-half-foot animatronic plague doctor.
Our usual Home Depot pilgrimage began with the toilet seat dilemma. My mom, ever concerned with guest perceptions and functionality, insisted it was time for replacements. “I don’t want your friends to come here and ask why our toilet seat is yellow,” she declared, kicking off our weekly debate. Despite my assurances that friends rarely scrutinize toilet seat hues, the mission was set.
Walking through the familiar orange-hued aisles of Home Depot, we navigated past displays of toilets perched like porcelain trophies. My mom, with her practical yet whimsical mind, mused, “Yeah, I guess they don’t want to write ‘toilet,’ because then customers would think it’s a bathroom.” We finally reached the toilet seat section, a grid of endless white and beige options. The sales interaction followed its predictable course of quality assessments and model comparisons. We even brought our old toilet lid, disguised in a plastic bag, for a shape-matching exercise, drawing curious glances from other shoppers.
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YouTube thumbnail promoting a review of the 2024 Home Depot Plague Doctor Halloween decoration. The image features the animatronic plague doctor against a blurred background suggestive of a Home Depot store.]
Toilet seats secured and doormats efficiently chosen, we started towards the checkout. That’s when we encountered them: the Halloween decorations. Towering figures of clowns, witches, skeletons, and ghouls lined the aisle, a premature celebration of spooky season. Among them, Dean the Deathologist, a short green man, stood guard. But it was the animatronic plague doctor that truly captured our attention.
Standing tall at 7.5 feet, the plague doctor was more than just a decoration; it was an experience. As we approached, it boomed, “Come closer, and I’ll rip you apart.” My mom, initially startled, quickly became enchanted. “He’s saying he’ll rip us apart! Wow, I want it,” she exclaimed, envisioning it as a year-round lawn ornament, adaptable to every holiday. The practicality versus whimsy debate ignited once more. Questions arose: “Does his bag come with him?” “Why does a plague doctor need a bag anyway?” “Is $277 too much for a harbinger of doom?”
The plague doctor’s dark humor and imposing presence were undeniably captivating. My mom, despite balking at the price, was clearly smitten. The idea of a plague doctor gracing our front yard, through Christmas and beyond, was both absurd and strangely appealing. We ultimately decided against the purchase, citing practicality and neighborly considerations. However, as we carried our toilet seats and doormats to the car, the plague doctor’s menacing yet comical pronouncements lingered in our minds. “Maybe $277 isn’t unreasonable… What if you buy it for my birthday?” my mom mused, already plotting ways to bring the animatronic figure home.
Driving away from Home Depot, the image of the plague doctor, bag in hand (or not), remained vivid. What started as a mundane toilet seat run had morphed into a memorable encounter with a surprisingly charismatic harbinger of Halloween. While our bathroom fixtures were upgraded, it was the plague doctor that truly stole the show, leaving us contemplating front yard décor and the ever-blurring lines between home improvement and delightfully dark humor. Perhaps next week’s Home Depot trip will involve more than just essential household items; maybe it will involve bringing Dean the Deathologist’s plague-bearing colleague home.
