Porto potty's seem like a re-accuring nightmare to me, only acted out in real life by me. Some how I can come up with stories of horror easily and that have most likely happened to me inside or around or caused by these horrible germ filled, porous shit-containment-units(SCU).
If you've read a previous post of mine about a really really no god horrible bad start to day that I never finished to it's total potential like I have with many things (I'm sorry sweetie, I WILL get pictures up on the wall, I swear!) you'll know I am not a fan of the Port-o-John. I have to be close to having pee run down my leg in public and not being able to explain it away or jump into a river/lake/stream/ocean.
There is one circumstance that negates all grossness of the Willy-make-it grossfactordefcon12million though. And that my friends is alcohol. A lot of alcohol.
I went on a camping trip with my best friend, her husband and my guy friend who I thought was super cute but never hooked up with cause I was too good for that and didn't want to ruin a perfectly good decade long friendship and blah blah blah all those things girls say when they totally want to make out with someone but don't want to be rejected and feel like they have boils all over their faces when the boys laugh at them.
So we started off out little trip with a stop by the liquor store and then a bar. I shamelessly flirted with the bartender with at least 3 missing teeth all the while crossing my arms underneath my boobs to make them seem even bigger. Me and the 2 guys reaped the benefits with a ridiculous amount of free booze poured by the meth addict staring at the "girls". After some much needed video poker, unearned cash returns from said video poker and a little nourishment we head back to camp where we continue drinking!
After a couple solid hours of hydrating my liver with sugary sickly sweet alcohol that looked like motor oil mixed with honey, Shocker...I had to puke. Nothing says "sexy whoo hoo I wanna make out with you" like a puking girl in the bushes so I politely and eloquently excused myself to the facilities. (I'm sure it sounded like: be ri baccckk, don't drink allthe booooze suckass gotta peeee bye)
I stumbled off down the gravel road from our campsite to the port-o-germ factory and crawled in touching oh too much... I forgot I had to puke and plopped down on the hard plastic freezing cold seat. Now I can hover like a mo-fo...but when your center of gravity has been slightly altered by a half gallon of something called "honey Jager", the only thing that stopped me from falling INTO that hole was that the god lord above blessed me what is clinically called a ghetto booty. It acts like training wheels, so I learned, when you just can't quite get the hovering effect and plop down on the germ laden ugh fest toilet seat.
Half way through my business I then remember that I had to puke. Just then I heard foot steps crunching up the road. Holding bile in the back of my throat I finished up and turned around to expel some demons. As I made the frantic 180, my ghetto booty hit the (unlocked...doh!) door and flung it open just in time for my best buddy to see my pants around my ankles, ass hanging out of the door in full view and in mid dry heave. A site I am so sure she wants to forget but is forever ingrained in her innocent mind.
My advise to my PDRTM blog is that when in doubt, do the crouch. Find a lovely spot in the woods and take care of business. You won't fall in and you won't risk hepatitis of the ass either. Beware of poison oak though...no one wants to make out with someone who is oozing...even if you have a great rack and laugh at all of his jokes.
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