The Texan Portapotty
The First Time.
Portapotties on Texas building sites could be the subject of a book, never mind a fucking blog. These things are unbelievable. I didn't have a problem using them until I moved over here. The very first time I needed to number two on a Texas site, I casually strolled over to the apparatus with a newspaper neatly folded and tucked under my arm, whistling jauntily and happy with life and all it contained. The sun was shining, birds warbled in the shrubbery, clouds danced across a sky so blue Stevie Ray Vaughn would have written a song about it. A whimsical hint of lavender drifted from an adjacent flowerbed. A brilliant green humming bird faltered near, wings drumming, exploring the garden's nectar. It was dreamily disneylike. Then I opened the portapotty door.
And Hell descended upon me.
There were two muddy footprints - at least I hope it was mud - stenciled on either side of the hole. The seat was down with a giant turd beached thereon, looking somewhat embarrassed. It was the size of a toddler's arm. A giant toddler with elephantiasis. The stench was gagging. There was no toilet paper. The mound of effluent in the receptacle was so massive it threatened zoning laws. Aircraft had to be diverted. There were tiny city workers erecting antennas. The peak of the mound looked at me like a lurking leviathan, level with the rim.
As I recoiled in horror, a sign on the inside of Lucifer's Skinner box informed me that this "unit" could support the shit of ten men for a week. I bent double, dry heaving, and begged to fucking differ. There had to be 50 guys on this job site, most of them obviously having a penchant for Mexican food. I spun away from the scene, disoriented and thoroughly disgusted. Heyzoos fucking wept! I was forced to make alternative toilet arrangements involving a clump of trees, an old newspaper, a low-hanging branch and some surprisingly limber maneuvering.
The Last Time.
The blistering combination had destroyed my underpants. An acidic cocktail of extreme heat, reactive concrete dust, lashings of sweat and good, honest muck had rendered them gooey, like wearing warm, wet tissue strewn with sharp sand. So far I'd micro-managed my gastro-intestinal schedule throughout the day and successfully avoided the need to descend from the unshaded tile roof I was miserably ensconcing to exploit the portapotty appointed directly in the murderous Texas summer sun like a Japanese POW camp punishment device.
To further my abstinence, I'd been judiciously neglecting to break wind.
Reason?
The two standard indicators of the "follow through" are;
1. Warmth
and
2. Moisture.
The temperature on a tar-papered roof during a 100° day will top out at around 160°. In such conditions the sweat coursing down one's back funnels between one's buttocks like a millpond's sluice gate stuck on up. Thus these indicators are fucking nulled.
An animalistic moan of anguish from my stomach told me the aftermath of the forthcoming zephyr gathering momentum in my innards would be drenched in ambiguity.
So, adopting the Texan roofers' creeds Fart Like You're Felching Or Fart On The John (I'm using the term felching apocryphally rodentized, of course) and the all encompassing It's Always Best to Check, I gingerly climbed down the ladder (being careful to keep my slippery bum cheeks clenched tighter than a moneylender's fist after the dot.com crash) and waddled to the crapper.
The second largest hillock of human waste I've ever seen belched death at me, but my spirit was strong, the seat was clean(ish) and there was toilet paper. Fortified by these three weapons I shuffled into it's lair.
I scattered my sheets of barrier toilet roll and hovered rather than sat, making sure my danglies didn't dip in the primordial pile.
When my business was complete, I arose to wipe. Unfortunately, the end of a length of barrier toilet roll stuck to my profusely sweating rear. As I elevated, the rest unfurled, dumped into the noxiousness, slid back over the seat wearing a fresh coat of shit and, like a pendulum pinned to my buttock, cheerfully slapped me on the back of the knee.
It's hard to describe the gamut of emotions racing through my soul as I screamed like a girl. OTHER PEOPLE'S SHIT WAS ON MY FUCKING LEG!! Whimpering audibly, I tore off a fistful of fresh paper, wiped away the smear and hurriedly repeated the action countless times with additional clean TP until my sobs dissipated and my skin was red raw. I pulled up my shorts and burst from the cubicle like car-bomb shrapnel. I told my guys to finish the day themselves, drove my truck home and took the longest shower of my life, or at least, the back of my leg did.
I'll never sit down in a portapotty again.
Portapotties on Texas building sites could be the subject of a book, never mind a fucking blog. These things are unbelievable. I didn't have a problem using them until I moved over here. The very first time I needed to number two on a Texas site, I casually strolled over to the apparatus with a newspaper neatly folded and tucked under my arm, whistling jauntily and happy with life and all it contained. The sun was shining, birds warbled in the shrubbery, clouds danced across a sky so blue Stevie Ray Vaughn would have written a song about it. A whimsical hint of lavender drifted from an adjacent flowerbed. A brilliant green humming bird faltered near, wings drumming, exploring the garden's nectar. It was dreamily disneylike. Then I opened the portapotty door.
And Hell descended upon me.
There were two muddy footprints - at least I hope it was mud - stenciled on either side of the hole. The seat was down with a giant turd beached thereon, looking somewhat embarrassed. It was the size of a toddler's arm. A giant toddler with elephantiasis. The stench was gagging. There was no toilet paper. The mound of effluent in the receptacle was so massive it threatened zoning laws. Aircraft had to be diverted. There were tiny city workers erecting antennas. The peak of the mound looked at me like a lurking leviathan, level with the rim.
As I recoiled in horror, a sign on the inside of Lucifer's Skinner box informed me that this "unit" could support the shit of ten men for a week. I bent double, dry heaving, and begged to fucking differ. There had to be 50 guys on this job site, most of them obviously having a penchant for Mexican food. I spun away from the scene, disoriented and thoroughly disgusted. Heyzoos fucking wept! I was forced to make alternative toilet arrangements involving a clump of trees, an old newspaper, a low-hanging branch and some surprisingly limber maneuvering.
The Last Time.
The blistering combination had destroyed my underpants. An acidic cocktail of extreme heat, reactive concrete dust, lashings of sweat and good, honest muck had rendered them gooey, like wearing warm, wet tissue strewn with sharp sand. So far I'd micro-managed my gastro-intestinal schedule throughout the day and successfully avoided the need to descend from the unshaded tile roof I was miserably ensconcing to exploit the portapotty appointed directly in the murderous Texas summer sun like a Japanese POW camp punishment device.
To further my abstinence, I'd been judiciously neglecting to break wind.
Reason?
The two standard indicators of the "follow through" are;
1. Warmth
and
2. Moisture.
The temperature on a tar-papered roof during a 100° day will top out at around 160°. In such conditions the sweat coursing down one's back funnels between one's buttocks like a millpond's sluice gate stuck on up. Thus these indicators are fucking nulled.
An animalistic moan of anguish from my stomach told me the aftermath of the forthcoming zephyr gathering momentum in my innards would be drenched in ambiguity.
So, adopting the Texan roofers' creeds Fart Like You're Felching Or Fart On The John (I'm using the term felching apocryphally rodentized, of course) and the all encompassing It's Always Best to Check, I gingerly climbed down the ladder (being careful to keep my slippery bum cheeks clenched tighter than a moneylender's fist after the dot.com crash) and waddled to the crapper.
The second largest hillock of human waste I've ever seen belched death at me, but my spirit was strong, the seat was clean(ish) and there was toilet paper. Fortified by these three weapons I shuffled into it's lair.
I scattered my sheets of barrier toilet roll and hovered rather than sat, making sure my danglies didn't dip in the primordial pile.
When my business was complete, I arose to wipe. Unfortunately, the end of a length of barrier toilet roll stuck to my profusely sweating rear. As I elevated, the rest unfurled, dumped into the noxiousness, slid back over the seat wearing a fresh coat of shit and, like a pendulum pinned to my buttock, cheerfully slapped me on the back of the knee.
It's hard to describe the gamut of emotions racing through my soul as I screamed like a girl. OTHER PEOPLE'S SHIT WAS ON MY FUCKING LEG!! Whimpering audibly, I tore off a fistful of fresh paper, wiped away the smear and hurriedly repeated the action countless times with additional clean TP until my sobs dissipated and my skin was red raw. I pulled up my shorts and burst from the cubicle like car-bomb shrapnel. I told my guys to finish the day themselves, drove my truck home and took the longest shower of my life, or at least, the back of my leg did.
I'll never sit down in a portapotty again.
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