It's no longer simply a funny line from "Billy Madison." The new house came fully equipped with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cute little garage, and a river of human shit flowing through the backyard.
The news that feces is piling up on your back porch is never what you want to hear when you just came home from your combined 11 hour day of work and school. Nevertheless, as soon as I opened the front door the other day I got three horrified versions of that disgusting revelation. Jonalyn (being the lady of the house) wasn't quite as vulgar as her penis-toting counterparts, but the message was clear in all cases: Our dung is not where it's supposed to be. Instead of calmly working its way through the pipe that runs underneath our rear lawn, it made a sharp detour at the patio and erupted out of a small drain just outside our sliding glass door. There were bits of stool and T.P. everywhere.
Turns out this house we're renting uses a sewer main that's so old there are fucking cave paintings on it. The pipe just collapsed like paper, causing all of our crap to get backed up after hitting a subterranean dam of solid earth. Now we have a level 3 bio hazard where our herb garden was supposed to go. Cool, huh? At least it gives me a good excuse to get one of those wicked radiation suits without having to admit to people that I'm really preparing for the near future when the dead rise and begin to feast on the living. The Zombiepocalypse is nigh. . .
It's really not as bad as you would think once you've gotten over the disgust of having a pile of human waste in lieu of a pretty birdbath. We had a plumber come out and set us up temporarily so that we don't have to make dookie in the shed, and after the landlord plops down $2,700 bucks we should have a fresh sewer main that's fit enough even for the shit of kings. Until then, no ping-pong unless you want to fish the ball out of the big brown puddle.
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