You can't flush a rug. Intuitive? Perhaps, but the protagonist of our story, a 1950s hausfrau on the cusp of joining the landed gentry, finds herself with funds sufficient for either plumbing of the highest quality, or carpet from wall to wall. While initially tempted by the allure of fine, woven floor covering, the wise words of a sage pipefitter remove the StainMaster scales from her eyes. She chooses cast iron pipes of the highest quality, her deep pile dreams deferred for another day. NOTE: The explicit warnings are due to some double entendre's that might be awkward to explain to kids. Otherwise, it's nothing worse that could be shown on broadcast TV.