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DC: Stop.
MR: To replace the pump, the broken one must first be removed. This requires a human being to suit up, and enter the chamber through a series of watertight doors at the bottom of the shaft. He must then physically crawl through several tons of raw sewage, and scramble to the top of the poo-covered pump while feeling his way through a chunky bouillabaisse of unimaginable stench.
DC: You're making this up.
MR: Once atop the pump, he must attach a cable to a hook. Then, a giant winch pulls the broken pump out of the muck, and straight up the 50-foot shaft. The sight is unforgettable. The smell is indescribable. And the sound made by a four-ton motor breaking a seal of highly adhesive poo will haunt your dreams.
DC. Sorry I asked.
MR: I get that a lot.
DC: What do you do after a day like that? How do you put it behind you?
MR: It's not difficult. Our schedule is so busy, there's not much time to grieve or reflect on any particular experience. The day after that shoot, I spent 10 hours crawling through the forest with an owl vomit collector. (It's a job, I swear.) Two days later, I collected sperm from a boar – the hard way - and artificially inseminated a 600-pound sow. The individual horrors are finite and so far, manageable. The exponential fallout is another matter.
DC: A lot of people on the Dirty Jobs Web site say they watch your show because you're funny. Do you see Dirty Jobs as a comedy?
MR: Dirty Jobs only seems funny because it airs around shows like Deadliest Catch, Going Tribal, Survivorman and Man vs. Nature. In that lineup, CSI would get laughs.
DC: So you're saying Dirty Jobs wouldn't work on Comedy Central?
MR: Probably not. Comedies are deliberately designed to be funny. Dirty Jobs was not deliberately designed to be anything so specific. The humor is symptomatic.
DC: Nevertheless, people find you amusing.
MR: If you say so. But truthfully, I'm more concerned with amusing myself than amusing the viewer.
DC: So how do you keep yourself amused? How do you laugh while picking up roadkill?
MR: A slapstick mentality is the only sensible way to host a show that guarantees a certain dose of regular humiliation. In fact, it's the only sensible way to approach life. I find inspiration in the world-weary but good-natured vaudevillian clown — the one who knows he's going to eventually get a pie in the face, but shows up anyway.
