"This elevator only goes to the basement, and someone made an awful mess down there." -Abe SimpsonI have a great fondness for women that extends well beyond my girlfriend's hewg bewbs and a crippling oedipal complex. Females are the buxom glue that holds this world together. They are, most importantly, the givers of life. And a woman truly is a man's better half. Plus, if you tell a chick you love her she will probably tongue your balls, which, being inches closer (eight inches in my case) to your asshole is remarkable. The weaker sex (yes, ladies, you are the weaker sex. It is so easy to beat you up!) has always had my complete and unconditional respect. I did not think that I could possibly sing the praises of your virtues any higher. And then, this weekend, I was reminded of one of the most important and degrading struggles most of you women will have to face in your lifetime: the port-a-potty. Whenever I am in the vicinity of a port-a-potty (or john), it usually means that I am at a county fair, a concert, or a tailgating party, in which case I am also usually too fucked up to give a shit where I piss, just so long as it is not in pants. But this weekend, whist tailgating, I encountered a brief moment of sobriety, and in my lucidity I took notice of all the girls having to march in and out of the johns that lined the parking lot. Suddenly, it hit me that it must really suck to be a chick and have to use one of these disgusting shit boxes. I stood in line and watched as girl after girl came out of the john, a look of pure, unadulterated antipathy etched across their faces. For some, it could have been the booze making them look that way, others were probably born with that look on their face (ISU fans), but I was sure that most of them were looking that way because of the excrement-laden crypt they had just endured. When it was finally my turn to relieve myself, I stepped diligently into the john and let the spring door slam behind me, turning the gray plastic lock so the outside notice changed from green to red. Inside I was provided with two (2) luxurious options. Being a man who also contains a penis, I could either piss into the small urinal attached to the side of the john, or I could piss into the gaping hole in the center of the john. Decisions, decisions. Now, I have the urinary aim of Stevie Wonder at a shooting range, so I politely and respectfully chose the urinal. As I let myself go I turned (out of sheer morbid curiosity) and peered into the toilet. The lid of the toilet was already covered in piss. I doubt that anyone had every attempted to lift it. Inside the belly of the beast was an abhorrent salad of piss, several definitions of shit, vomit, an excessively used tampon, a diaper, beer cans, part of a hot dog and season four (4) of Scrubs. Now, according to WebMD, a picnic table has more germs than a port-a-potty, but I'm not sure I'm convinced. Ladies, if someone asked you, "Where would you rather put your cootchie? A foot-and-a-half away from someone else's liquidy shit? Or tucked away nicely in a pair of jeans and resting comfortably on a wooden bench?" how would you answer? "What is liquidy shit, Alex." "Oh, I'm sorry. We were looking for 'tucked away nicely and resting comfortably on a wooded bench.'" As I gazed hypnotically into that dank abyss of apocalyptic defecation, I couldn't help but think of all those poor vaginae out there that had to hoover delicately over it's murky waters. That hole of sick and waste very well could have been the gateway to Hell. Dante himself could not have envisioned a more horrific sight. Once I finished my business, I zipped up, stepped out, and gave a deep hug to the girl who was set to go in after me. "Poor thing," I whispered, as I furtively wiped my piss-covered hands onto the back of her shirt, "you have no idea." If I was a dashing archaeologist living in the late 1930s and leading a group of scantily clad lady scientists through an old South American temple, and we suddenly found ourselves encased in a small room with a poopy hole in the center, my first order would be, "Ladies, whatever you do, don't take out your vaginas! There's shit in that hole." Then I would follow up with, "Bewbs are OK, though." Seriously, for all intents and purposes, a port-a-potty is technically the last reasonable place a lady should flash the moose knuckle. I'm not quite sure of technique once inside either. I'm sure there is some hovering going on. A delicate balancing act that if done properly results in a controlled stream falling languidly into the center of the void. But if done with a booze-addled mind, one slip could mean a slushy end for those Steve Madden's you stupidly decided to wear. I'm sure a honed aim could hit the side urinal if aimed correctly. Perhaps some semblance of cleaning could be done to the seat, but if you are a woman who just plops her ass down on the seat to do your business, then you have effectively given up on life and I feel sorry for you. It is, of course, completely different for a man. We were blessed with an external appendage for our sex organ; a veritable pistol, naturally made to be pointed and shot wherever we please (not in the hair, though. Trust me, your girlfriend will be pissed). Public restrooms pose no threat to us; no bathroom situation does. We can wheel out just enough dick to get the job done, and empty our chambers whist standing at a safe distance. Port-a-potties? Fuck em. I use the side urinal out of respect for the women who have to endure the toilet, but every now and then I will piss into the hole, especially if there is a nice big turd resting atop a raft of toilet paper. That turd becomes Pearl Harbor, and my piss is the sneak attack. "Hey...hey, Mike. Did you-did you see that piece of shit in the toilet in there? Yeah. I know. I know. L-listen, man. I, like...(hiccup)...like totally sawed it in half. With my piss!" I'll tell you what, girls, I definitely couldn't do it. But you march right into that john and do what has to be done. That takes balls, and I liken that bravery to the Allies storming the beach at Normandy. You deserve to be saluted.
The Moore You Know: Oh boy. I just got back from London, England a few days ago. It was weird, because I had no idea that across the pond cigarettes are called fags. Needless to say this caused a bit of confusion, as I'm a smoker. I would ask for a fag, people would shove cigarettes in my face, and I would have to tell them that, "No, I mean I want to get fucked in the ass."
© Eric Moore - 2010
Port-a-Potties are disgusting, and like all rational women I avoid them like the plague. Like you said though, there are situations where they can't be avoided. Aside from the fact that you're doing your business on top of a pile of other people's excretions, those things never have any fucking toilet paper. Hovering is difficult enough, but then you have to spend extra time hovering to drip dry, all while holding your breath to prevent yourself from inhaling the stench. It's exhausting.
ReplyDeleteMost port-a-potties have hand sanitizing stations now though, so they've got that going for them.