With France in the headlines for their lack of support of our actions in Iraq, I've been reminded of an interesting summer that I spent just outside of Paris with my Great Uncle. This was 1972, and I had just graduated from high school. As a graduation present, my parents sent me to France, little knowing what I was in for.

My uncle was a fairly influential district judge. After I arrived, he invited three of his very good friends to meet me at a very special party. One was an airline pilot, the second was a television anchorman, and the third, most importantly, was a famous French chef. My uncle planned a two-week gastronomical feast as my welcome to France.

The party started with raw oysters and porno flicks. Later, the famous chef prepared course after course of the richest food that could ever be imagined. And then came dessert, with flabby prostitutes that ate cake while they had sex on the large dinner table. This activity was repeated daily, and I really could not believe what was happening. The amount of food consumed was incredible, and the prostitutes naturally decided to stay for the duration.

The house where the party was staged was extremely old, built originally without plumbing sometime in the 19th Century. Over the years, a small makeshift plumbing system had been added. A septic tank lay buried below the garden, and a pull-chain toilet had been installed near the bedrooms along with a small sink in the hall. Although this was a fairly large house, there was only the one toilet.

With so many people in the house and so much consumption of food, the inadequate sewage system was overwhelmed. About one week into the party, after an evening of excessive drinking, eating and sex, the airline pilot entered the small cubicle where toilet was located and pulled the chain. I had never heard such screams. "Mierde!!! Mierde!!!" yelled the pilot. The toilet bowl literally shot up off the floor in a fountain of brown liquid shit. It was sort of like an oil gusher, but with shit.

The antiquated septic system had built up an incredible amount of pressure, which vomited back into the house and shot the toilet right off its bolts. The liquid stream of shit flowed into the hallway, down the stairs, into the kitchen, and out the back door. The television anchorman tried to stop the flow with wadded up newspaper in the soil pipe, but that did not work. The flow abated only after the septic tank completely emptied its French Aged Toxic Vintage.

The prostitutes left. I called my folks and told them I was coming home early. My uncle never could get the smell out of the house.

-- El Cagador [1]