"This week we have Winston Rothschild of Rothschild's Sewage and Septic Sucking Services." -Red Green, The Red Green Show

This lizard looks familiar . . . Howie Mandell? Britney Spears? Hmmmm.

Oh, yeah, septic problems are funny, funny just like an old lady falling down the stairs in a movie is funny. Sure, an old lady falling down the stairs is funny, as long as it’s a real old lady.

It started with a morning “whiff” of smell as I walked to the Wildermobile and prepared to head for a day at the salt mines. The whiff was not the pleasant sort of just clean out of the shower smell, unless your shower is connected to water lines in New Jersey.

The Mrs. says that I obsess about things. This one whiff was enough to make me obsess.

I get obsessed about how things could go wrong in my life and then remembering that it would be okay, like finding out that I got married one night in a drunken ceremony to Britney Spears, and wondering how I would every afford to pay for her underwear, then realizing that, heck, she’s probably never even owned any, so my finances would be intact.

In this case, my mind went down the thought that I would immediately have to pay for an entirely new septic system for my house. I did the numbers, and it was an astonishing amount, even more than Brad Pitt might spend on air fresheners to blot out the smell of Angelina Jolie. Oh, wait, maybe that was the whiff I first caught . . .

Anyhow, I called up the folks that pump septic systems. They arrived exactly on time, and began to probe my house like CSI: Houston for buried septic tanks, using three dimensional magnetic resonance satellite imagery. At least that’s what they charged me for.

It turns out that the septic system at the Wilder compound (a compound is more than one building, down in Texas) is more complex than the system used to determine the amount of hair gel that George Clooney must use to avoid looking like Don King. Apparently, there’s some way all drains connect to all of the four septic tanks, rather than just some of them.

As the Indiana Jones-style journey of discovery continued, the septic guys found that one of the lids to the tanks was cracked, and, was apparently a size only used in lower Prussia back when Otto Von Bismarck was more than just a tasty pastry. They’d have to order one special.

Turns out one of the tanks wasn’t even draining, well, to anywhere.

Further investigation with my next door neighbor, Gladys Kravitz, provides information that the former owner used to just discharge his raw sewage straight to the ditch, until the neighbors complained. Why they would complain about somebody else’s septic discharge running by their house is beyond me.

Gladys notices everything in the neighborhood, and had seen that someone had dug up a full third of our front yard, and proceeded to regale us with tales of sewage in the neighborhood over the last twenty years. It was as if the History Channel® had done a special on crap, and Gladys was the host.

Anyhow, the journey of discovery isn’t quite done. The septic guys will be back next week, and will be sucking the last of four tanks, and then using some sort of hydroblaster on at least one of them. I’m figuring I could have a really cool HD TV. Or, I could pee in my own house. I’m picking the second. From what I’ve seen of HD TV, well, the stars could have used better skin care when they were younger. When your head shows up sixteen times its normal size, everything shows. And, yes, I’m talking to you, Howie Mandell.

The Boy is excited. He was gone while they pumped the first few tanks, but he’ll be home when they pump out the other, what, dozen of them? He’s already gotten out his camera and microphone. He’ll save the sights, he’ll save the sounds. Shame he can’t figure out a way to save the smells . . .

Wait . . . maybe those are the jars I found in his room . . .