The Great Hall of Sydney University had never seen anything quite like it. Then again, the Great Hall of Sydney University had never hosted the annual Funnel Envy Conference before—a fact that was made abundantly clear by the confused expressions of the academics in attendance, who had expected a symposium on hydraulic engineering and were now staring at a stage adorned with pink and purple banners reading “UNBLOCK YOUR POTENTIAL” and “FLOW LIKE NEVER BEFORE.”
Barry stood at the podium, gripping its edges with hands the size of dinner plates. He was wearing a suit. He had bought it specially for the occasion. It was the first suit he had ever owned, and he suspected it might also be the last, because nothing in his life had prepared him for the experience of standing before three hundred people—including several distinguished professors, a representative from the Sydney Water Board, and a man who had wandered in thinking this was a plumbing supplies expo—and preparing to give a speech about his own erectile dysfunction.
In the front row sat Catherine Zeta-Jones, Lady Gaga, and Rihanna. Cath was wearing a navy blue dress that screamed “serious but supportive.” Gaga was wearing a dress constructed entirely from what appeared to be repurposed funnel-shaped garden ornaments, spray-painted gold and strung together with fishing line. A cockatoo named Trevor II (Trevor I had been left at home with a cold) perched on her shoulder, surveying the room with aristocratic disdain. Rihanna was wearing a simple black tracksuit and holding a plate of muffins—blueberry this time, “for emotional balance.”
“You’ve got this, Barry,” Cath had whispered as he took the stage. “Remember: you’re not just a plumber. You’re a funnel. A working funnel.”
“I don’t think that’s helping,” Barry had replied, but he had stepped up anyway.
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Now, twenty minutes into his speech, Barry was finding his rhythm. He had abandoned his prepared notes after the first paragraph—they had been written by Gaga and included phrases like “the phallic symbolism of the pipe wrench” and “ejaculatory hydraulics”—and was speaking from the heart.
“So there I was,” he said, his voice gaining confidence, “standing in Ms. Zeta-Jones’s apartment, trying to tell her about my… my problem. And I said ‘waterworks.’ Because I panicked. And then I said ‘funnel envy.’ Because I panicked harder. And she thought I meant the house.”
The audience laughed. Barry allowed himself a small smile.
“And then these three—” he gestured at the front row, “—these three took me
to a doctor. And they didn’t judge me. Well, Ms. Gaga judged me a little. But mostly they just… they just helped. They gave me muffins. They made me exercise. They put me on a trapeze.”
More laughter.
“I still don’t know why there was a trapeze.”
Gaga nodded solemnly, as if the trapeze had been essential.
“And I know this is a conference about… about what I have. About funnel envy. About E.D. And I know there are doctors here, and specialists, and people who understand the science of it all. But I’m just a plumber. I don’t understand the science. I understand pipes. I understand flow. I understand that sometimes, things get blocked. And sometimes, you need help to unblock them.”
He paused, looking at the three women in the front row. Cath was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Rihanna was holding up a muffin in solidarity. Gaga’s cockatoo had fallen asleep.
“These women helped me unblock. Not just my… my funnel. But my… my shame. My fear. My belief that I was broken and couldn’t be fixed. They showed me that asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s just… maintenance. Regular maintenance. Like checking your pipes before winter.”
The audience applauded. Barry felt something swell in his chest—not his funnel, but something else. Pride, maybe. Or gratitude.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick. “Thank you for listening. And if there’s anyone out there who’s struggling with their own… their own blockage… I just want you to know: you’re not alone. And also, apparently, trapeze helps. I don’t know why. But it does.”
He stepped back from the podium, and the applause grew louder. He was just about to return to his seat when Catherine Zeta-Jones rose from the front row, her navy blue dress swishing with purpose.
“Barry!” she called out, her Welsh accent cutting through the noise. “Barry, wait!”
Barry froze. “Ms. Zeta-Jones? What are you—”
“I have something to show everyone!” Cath announced, striding toward the stage. She pulled something from her handbag—a large, glossy poster board, the kind used by schoolchildren for science fair projects. “Barry, you forgot to mention the most important part!”
“I did?”
“You did!” Cath turned to face the audience, holding up the poster board. On it were two photographs. The first showed Barry from a week ago—a large man in a stained t-shirt, holding a pipe wrench, looking deeply uncomfortable. The second showed Barry from yesterday—the same man, but somehow… different. His face was slightly less round. His posture was slightly more confident. He was wearing the suit.
“Before!” Cath announced, pointing at the first photo. “And after!”
The audience murmured with interest.
“Barry lost twenty pounds!” Cath declared. “In one day!”
Barry’s face went pale. “Ms. Zeta-Jones, that’s not—”
“The Funnel Method works!” Cath continued, her voice rising to infomercial pitch. “Twenty pounds! One day! Look at him! Look at that jawline! That jawline was hidden under pipe-related despair! Now it’s free!”
“Ms. Zeta-Jones, I really don’t think—”
“And it wasn’t just the exercise!” Cath said, warming to her theme. “It was the muffins! The kale muffins! They were disgusting, but they worked! Barry ate one and immediately lost three pounds! Mostly from vomiting! But still!”
Rihanna stood up, holding her plate of blueberry muffins. “These ones are better! They only make you lose one pound, but they taste like heaven!”
Gaga rose as well, her golden funnel dress clanking. “And the trapeze! Don’t forget the trapeze! Trapeze is the key to unlocking your inner funnel!”
Barry covered his face with his hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die right here on this stage.”
But the audience was laughing. Not at him—with him. They were laughing and applauding and taking photos with their phones. Somewhere in the back, a professor of urology was nodding thoughtfully, as if considering whether to incorporate trapeze into his practice.
Cath lowered the poster board and looked at Barry with genuine warmth. “You did it, Barry. You unblocked yourself. And we’re so proud of you.”
“I lost twenty pounds because I was so stressed I couldn’t eat for three days,” Barry muttered. “And I’m pretty sure the trapeze nearly killed me.”
“Details,” Cath said, waving a dismissive hand. “The point is: you’re a new man. A thinner man. A man whose funnel is no longer envious.”
“My funnel is still envious. That’s not how any of this works.”
“Shhh,” Cath said, pressing a finger to her lips. “The audience doesn’t need to know that.”
Barry looked out at the crowd—the laughing, applauding, slightly bewildered crowd—and then at the three women who had turned his life into a surrealist performance art piece. He thought about his van, and his tool belt, and his mate Dave with the different knee.
And then he did something unexpected.
He laughed.
“Fine,” he said, stepping back to the podium. “Fine. Yes. I lost twenty pounds. Yes. The trapeze helped. Yes. The kale muffins were terrible but effective. And yes—” he looked directly at Catherine Zeta-Jones, “—these three women changed my life. Not because they fixed my funnel. But because they made me believe it could be fixed. And that’s worth more than twenty pounds. Even twenty pounds in one day.”
The audience erupted in applause. Gaga’s cockatoo woke up and screeched approvingly. Rihanna threw a blueberry muffin onto the stage, which Barry caught with surprising grace.
And somewhere, in the back of the Great Hall, a kookaburra laughed.
Or maybe it was Trevor II.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was Barry himself—thinner, happier, and finally, at long last, unblocked.