My parent's septic tank failed. Time for a replacement.
So, they dug the pit and ordered in the tank, which by code requirements, must be inspected by the local poop police before being installed. Net result was this horrifically large white concrete poop processor sitting in the front yard, unhooked to the system until approved. Mother was appalled. What would the neighbors think? That this southern belle might actually drop a grogan occasionally? Horrors! Bless her heart.
Dad was more on the practical side of things. The Poop Police said their standards allowed them up to two weeks to come to a site once notified in triplicate and check's cleared on the fee.
Pops was pissed. Also he had to drive all over town dropping deuces until Inspector Poopcycle finished checking his facebook long enough to actually drive by and say, "Yup, dats a septic tank." Dad became more and more ticked every day and every phone call later. The folks at McDonalds got tired of seeing him coming as well, since they had dropped a inspection rating or two during his "visits".
Needless to say, the more you want something done out of a gubment official, the more time it will take them to complete the job. Sure enough, two weeks to the day, and at roughly 4 in the afternoon, the Official Poop Sniffer shows up, clipboard in hand. Dad had had it.
Earlier, on the promise that they would be showing that afternoon finally, Dad had disappeared into the upstairs bathroom to pinch a loaf. He had just left it floating with the window open.
When Dad saw the Poop Patrol pull up, he made a bee line for the house and sent mom out to point the guy to the obvious large concrete box in the front yard. Right about the time Inspector Schmear got right up to the hole, Pop yells from the upstairs window, "INCOMING!!!" and the sound of a flush rang true. Sclhop, pop, right out the end of the open pipe into the open pit.
Mom still got the guy to sign the approval. What we southern males lack in tact, female southern charm often overcomes.
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