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12 December 2015, 11:53

I’m going to take this moment to just rant.

So, turn the page, click off or go do something else because the next few minutes are just fucking for me to have a little mental health moment.

We live in the country. Sticks. Bum Fuck Egypt. Outskirts. Well. To me we do, anyway. We are about 20 minutes from the BEEG city and 10 from a strip mall city. That’s a city which consists of a strip mall flanked on the sides by convenience stores. Doug says we really don’t, but I consider this place like most would consider the deep back recesses of the Rockies in the northeast.

As such, I think we are country living. This, to me, mean modern life has forsaken us. We have bugs and wild animals, and are seconds away from wearing leopard skins and falling into a Lord of the Flies situation. And we aren’t hooked up to a municipal water and sewage system. We have a septic tank and well water. This equates to pooping in the dirt, and drinking out of a hole in the ground. I might as well go barefoot in overalls, stop showering and brushing my teeth, and learn to pick the goddamn banjo because what the fuck good are all the advances pushed through in water treatment and waste disposal if I have keep my poop in a tank about 6 feet underground outside the back door of my house. I can feel the cholera and sepsis all over me. It’s probably on my peanut butter sandwich I ate this morning.

So we are swimming in fecal matter and drinking toxic waste that is brewing in the ground on a regular basis. And this is when the septic system is working properly. And we bring ourselves to what is currently killing me slowly from the inside. Our septic system went all broke.

In my area of Hee Haw, of which is in the news for a new brand of WHAT-THE-FUCKERY every other week, it rained a whole bunch. According to my research, rain will kind of screw up a septic tank, although I don’t think that was the entire reason for our septic tank deciding to do a Chernobyl and froth up noxious sludge into the yard. But, coincidentally, after the heavy rains here in ole South Fuckery, USA, there come a’bubblin poop water in the middle of the yard.

And it stank. Just a soul killing stench. That must be what suicide smells like. It was bad, and in my brain I had calculated that my time was nigh, and I would be dying from essence of effluent soon. But, I called the people who fix this sort of thing and told them of the evil scourge outside my back door.

A big truck came to pump the crap out. I didn’t go look at it because, I believe in my black villainous heart that I would literally drop over dead if I watch doody water in large quantities. Doug went and watched, though. He has a big fat life insurance policy on him, so I let him. And he came back to tell me that he thought the tankard of crap hadn’t ever been pumped out. Old condoms, maxipads and other unidentifiable solids were just pack in there like Spam in a Spam tin. This was the point that if I weren’t going to die from cholera, that I would have just kilt meeself. I don’t even want to know, much less be in a position to picture this.

And after they were done a ‘pumpin’, they left. The area was all dug up and torn asunder by the crew and the dirt was just polluted (I would guess by life killing disease and pestilence) that the dogs seem to love. They just couldn’t get enough of it. Well. Two of the dogs. Easley, the brown neurosis ridden pooch, has the good sense and mental illness to be as ickified of the shit as I am. The other two seemed eager to roll around and slather in it, and then come to cuddle with you on the bed.


So, oh happy day, we are not in fear of poop explosions or back ups or whatever happens when your sewage sticks around the house. I really do have a ginormous phobia when it comes to that sort of thing. I though I was safe from the evil.

I was so wrong.

After the first load of laundry, poo-water starting pooling in the disturbed area. It was cloudy, whitish, and brought with it a smell that, I’ll bet all the Chinese in China, had the Andromeda strain floating in it. I called the poo pumpers, who assured me that it would go away when the ground dried up and was less saturated with water.

They were dead wrong. The pool of poo-water just got bigger and bigger. I put an empty kiddy pool over it but it overran that area and creeped towards the back door. It was coming to get me.

And on top of that, can you believe that Doug caught Hurley the Dumbster Dog DRINKING OUT OF IT? So we put up with this, for a while, yelling at dogs to not go near it, and I’m sure dying of sepsis or ebola or some worse malady that comes from being near waste.

It was horrid to look at, and I had to for about a week. I was ever hopeful that it might seep back into the ground and heal itself, but that was a delusional dream I had. It got to the point, the dogs wouldn’t really go near it. And when the dogs, who roll in dead carcass leftovers and play with rotten potatoes, won’t approach it, it’s turned into a superfund site.

The poo pumpers finally came out and look at it. Turns out, something is plugged, something isn’t draining, something has gone terribly wrong. No surprises there, because she said the thing was installed sometime around when Nixon resigned. So, they are going to have to replace things and dig things up and whatnot later, but for now, they all were going to return to their homes and families and thank whatever deity they currently offer burnt tithings to they don’t have a pit of doom in their backyard. So they left this abyss of a shitbox exposed, this giant open infected wound in my yard until they were going to fix it or we died – whichever came first.

It’s piles of poop-dirt and cement slabs covering a tank that is continually making gurgling noises. It’s not a Christmasy warm cream kind of feeling when I look at it, so I decided to ignore it the best I could and try to go on with life knowing the hole leading to hell was outside my backdoor.


About an hour later after everybody had gone, I had two dogs come bounding in the house. They were wet and covered in dirt. A hellish poisonous odor rose off them like the smoke off a tire fire. They smelled like the very bowels of the devil had he ate a tank full of raw, bad fish and followed it with a trough of warm Pabst Blue Ribbon. My life was completely over at that point. You could have shot me in the face with a bazooka and I would have welcomed the sweet embrace of death. I have dungy dogs and they are real happy about that.

As I was having the largest conniption fit ever in mankind’s history, Doug helped me herd one into the bathroom. It truly was like being trapped with the god of guano. Hurley was the first dumb dog to be bathed. Hurley is freakishly strong and weighs about 70 lbs. He hates baths. The only thing on my side was that I was in catatonic trance and he’s afraid of me. I have to admit in life, I am a scary kind of girl occasionally so I use that to my advantage. So it’s a death match between me and the dog, fighting each other to see if I can keep him in the tub or he can climb out and be free.

I won of course, because NO DOG IS GOING TO GET THE BEST OF ME, and I have the crazy person strength.

The only thing I had in abundance was foamy apricot bath scrub and dish soap of which I mixed up into a fruity goo and slathered all over the dumb dog. It was like trying to cuddle a rabid honey badger. Claws and dog fat were lunging to and fro, and it was getting wet and slimy. The malevolent smell was disappearing and Hurley’s coat became white and clean. Rinsing him took the better part of a lifetime, and shortened my time on this earth by about 10 years, I think, but I got it done. I set him free to annoy and exasperate Doug, and brought the other one in.

Sophie is a big shepherd/labrador kind of thing and loves water – loves DIRTY HORRID OUTSIDE NO-NO kind of water. She doesn’t like baths but has realized that the quicker she succumbs to my will, the quicker she gets out. Since I was drenched and was going to have to take a bath anyway, I stuck her in the shower and got all nekkid and hopped in with her (don’t judge me). I got her lathered and cleaned, and there was some scratching and whining but I tried to control myself. She got clean. I got clean. The bathroom got destroyed. Dougie got mad. Par for the course.

So this was a brief little peak of insanity that made me forget the low level crisis that is brewing on the stove. And I think the bathroom manure slathered bathroom fight club session released some built up tension I had. All in all, it sucked.

Both dogs are clean, and I’m keeping an eagle eye on them so they don’t go back into the pit of hell and roll around in poo-dirt. It’s a really gorgeous day (75 degrees in December, thanks Global Warming), and although the backyard gives off the odors of a large sewage treatment facility, I’m pretty not-suicidal right now, so all is okay with the world.

But. My storage drive has died, my usb ports are flakey, and my trackpad no longer works.

It’s always something.