and the whole story only has one bad word
One early morning after a hard rain, I was making my way up the hill when I saw a line of traffic stuck behind a stalled car and heard the frenzied shouting of men.
And then it hit me. The fell-you-where-you’re-standing stench of ****. One of the sewer drains had overflowed, blasting away its manhole cover, and a gleaming brown waterfall cascaded down the hill. It took me about a minute to understand what was happening: what this had to do with the stalled car, why there were about fifteen men gesturing hysterically, half of them yelling at the poor, broken-down driver to “Push on! Push on!” and the other half careering down the hill, warning the other cars to “Go back! Go back!”
The car’s tires, you see, couldn’t get a grip on the asphalt for the slimy effluence underwheel. They spun and spun in place, emitting an agonized whine, churning out fecal matter as the men screamed, and women craned their heads over windowsills and balcony railings, adding their own horrified shouting and instructions to the commotion. Occasionally there was a mighty string of curses as one of the men got too close and got splattered. The private become public in spectacular fashion. It was horrifying. It was hilarious. It was basically everything a great poop joke should be. After watching awhile from a safe distance, I took a detour up another hill, giggling the whole way.