When I first started writing, I promised myself I'd never write anything that could embarrass a member of my family, especially one who has significant control of my sex life.  That's not always easy, especially when the story is so good.  But a man has to stand by his principles.

So once upon a time (it may have been yesterday), this woman (who looks nothing like my wife) was seated on the throne, taking care of some personal business.  Use your imagination.

Then it happened.  It began with a rumbling deep inside.  As the tremors got louder, the cats ran for cover, and the woman (who looks nothing like my wife) tried to avoid the inevitable.  But the laws of nature can't be defied.

Okay, certain sounds are to be expected in the bathroom, and I don't make a habit of discussing them.  Well, not in public.   But when the sounds come from the wrong end of the plumbing, they tend to grab your attention.

She tried to move, but it was too late.   With a belch and a pop, our toilet transformed itself into a bidet.  I wasn't there to see it, but I can't think of many things that would make my wife (you knew it all along) move faster.

As the popping continued, my wife improvised.  The seat lid, normally used to keep stuff from falling into the toilet, became a makeshift blast deflector to keep stuff in.  We're talking about nasty stuff.  Somebody else's.

Naturally, her first instinct was to run to the lowest floor and hide beneath the stairs.  She sometimes gets her emergencies confused.  Here's a tip.  When bad things are popping out of the sewer, get on top of the heavy furniture, not under it.

Half of our basement is carpeted, and the other half isn't.  Now I know why.  The side without carpet has a floor drain.   Well, it's usually a drain.  It also functions pretty well as a cannon.   According to my wife, it was launching you-know-what three feet into the air.

So here I am at work minding my own business, when the phone rings.  "Dave, we have a big-time problem!"   Dave?  Dave who?  No hablo Ingles.

I'm sorry, but "we" doesn't necessarily have to include "me," especially when I'm safe at work where things are flushing in the proper direction.  I assumed she was referring to herself and the man from Roto Rooter.

But if she insists on involving me, she should at least present all the facts, even if they are a bit embarrassing.  Never mind what this week's column will be about.

She told me the drains were backing up, and things we'd normally send to the wastewater treatment plant were taking a detour through the basement.

So I envisioned my youngest daughter flushing half a roll of toilet paper into a pipe that's not much larger than the cargo it's intended to carry.  Not to pick on her, but Godzilla uses less paper after a night at Taco Bell.

Once we'd agreed that I wasn't coming home to enjoy the show, my wife called a plumber.  Then she called me back and offered a little more information.

"It blew out of the toilet, too?"

Yes, she had neglected to make that point clear.  Then she described the awful smell that accompanied it.  How bad was it?

"Worse than anything you've ever done."

Then it all made sense.  The problem was a pressure buildup in the sewer.  A quick phone call confirmed my suspicions.   Yes, they were working on the sewer.  No problem.

"But it's shooting three feet out of the basement drain!"

"It'll do that," the clerk replied nonchalantly.  "I'd stand aside if I were you."

The eruptions ceased after a few minutes and my wife called to update me on the situation.  Damage was limited to a small area around the floor drain, but the toilet lid was a total loss.

Finally I realized there was one last thing I'd forgotten to ask.

"Were you sitting on the seat when it happened?"