#1 of a series
I wrote this story out for some friends and decided it was good enough to share out here. Last summer at that SHINDIG! festival up in Baltimore, there was a serious, debilitating lack of porta-potties. The situation was dire.
Late in the day, we were waiting in 25-35 minute lines for these limited facilities. Fortunately I only required use of the stand-up portion of the unit. Which was good, because when I did turn around to depart, I noted that the sit-down area of said unit had been fouled so badly by a previous occupant that my gentlemanly nature was nearly compromised. Why, “the vapors” does not even begin to describe the effect the befoulment had upon my sensory notions.
Upon my departure from the unit, a young lady approached hopefully, but in a fashion befitting my gentlemanly demeanor, I gently advised her that another unit might be much preferred to the one I had just exited. Perhaps I inadvertently besmirched my reputation in her eyes, but she’ll never have to think about the horrors I saw within.
The area of the park in which these restroom units were situated had very clearly marked points of ingress and egress. Approaching next was a bloke who Led Zeppelined his way into the facilities area, in through the out door as it were. His lack of civility conveniently allowed him to bypass the massive line we had waited in. Folks, this dumbfuckery would not stand on my watch. The rock and roll honor code demanded action.
I held the door to hell wide open for him, beckoning him into the foulness. “Here you go, Chief!” I exclaimed as he entered.
I did not wait to gauge his reaction.