Port-o-Let me the Eff out!


I’m not afraid of public toilets, and I’m only marginally wary of heavily used public toilets, so long as there’s not a floater or left-overs or a questionable smell of rotten urine. I have no problem wiping down a damp seat given copious quantities of TP and enough hand sanitizer. Since I never mastered The Hover, I do have some standards. The mall at Christmas, MOST small highway gas stations, and the “ladies” room in a bar after 9:30 make the “I can hold it, no really” list.

Oh, and now portapotties.

Until this weekend, I managed to make it 27 years without using the excrement-filled portals of Hell. This weekend was Festival, the biggest, most important, most awesomest music/food/arts festival in South Louisiana…and the world. It’s also the semi-official start of festival season around here – because if you’re going to the be hot and smelly for seven months, at least be hot and smelly with cold beer, good music, and awesome fucking food.

This year Dave managed to score the ever-coveted VIP pass from work (insert photo here, right after I take said photo). This little gem guaranteed me access to an acceptable place to relieve myself from all the heavy, creamy, orgasmic delicacies I intended to consume, without the need to take a midday break and head home for an hour.

Round about two, the crawfish nachos, shrimp grits, and gyro made by God waged war with my intestines. My intestines won. So off to the VIP tent I went, not urgently…yet, but you know, with a little bit of that crampy, extra-cheese-was-a-bad-idea feeling. I march myself into the tent and nonchalantly ask for directions to the bathrooms still heading toward the direction I thought they’d be. Homeboy at the check-in table informs me that this is the Amis tent, and my pass only gives me access to the hospitality area. Granted, the hospitality area is in an actual building with actual, flushable commodes and actual air conditioning, unlike the Amis tent which only houses less frequently used – a thus less hellacious – closets of doom.

And none of this was a problem until my colon shuttered and went from “I need the bathroom” to “ZOMFG I’m gonna shit my pants. No REALLY!” taking walking at all, much less the four city block walk to the hospitality building, off the table.

Do you know what a portapotty is? I mean you think I’m joking when I use words like “closet” and “hell.” I’ve wrestled a used condom from BOTH ends of my dog’s digestive tract, been peed on more times then I can count, sat in regurgitated table scraps, been kissed after a litterbox snack, been kissed after puking, been puked on, and stepped barefoot in more puddles and piles of excrement than I care to remember. I can handle gross. Really, I can. What I can’t handle is a four by three coffin containing a tank of thick blue WTF-is-that only four (estimating here) inches deep and piled with…well, it’s so disgusting I’ve blocked it from my conscious mind to protect my delicate psyche from the horror. Bath and Body Works doesn’t make a PocketBac big enough.

And that was before I got there. I really feel sorry for that short haired, skinny little blonde thing that went in after me, not just because someone should feed her more, but because she had to follow after me into a box that doesn’t flush with no circulation or even a can of Glade.

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