Back in '97, I had the good fortune of scoring ten front row tickets for a U2 concert at Pro Player Stadium in Miami. I sold four at a dandy profit to a scalping outfit, four to close friends at face value, and kept two for Mrs. Mammy and myself.
Our party of six rode together on concert day and arrived several hours early to tailgate. We were armed with much beer, booze, and various mind-altering substances. We also brought tons of tailgate food, including brats, baked beans, guacamole dip, and chips. My buds and I had been drinking since noonish and we already had a nice buzz by the time we arrived at the stadium.
We fired up our mini grill and proceeded to pig out on all of our viddles. I love guacamole and gobbled quite a bit, washed down with much beer.
The girls were complaining about the long lines at the port-o-lets, as that was their only choice for nature calls; the guys were peeing next to our vehicle with a door opened to form a bit of a screen from the huge tailgating party that was all around us.
As it started to get dark, we started thinking about entering the stadium. Just then I began feeling a rumbling coming from deep in my gut, and I knew that bowelus eruptus was a distinct possibility in my very near future. I told everyone to hang on, that I had to go get in the port-a-johnny line -- which was quite long by this time.
I stood in line for about fifteen minutes, praying that I could hang on. It was completely dark by now and the only illumination in the johnny area was coming from a half moon and the parking lot lights. I had my butt clenched as tight as possible as I slowly inched forward to the front of the line. Just when I was sure I was going to soil myself, my turn finally came.
I quickly jumped inside an incredibly foul smelling port-a-let, ripped down my pants, and took a seat in this dark, gloomy shit box. I was instantly sickened as I felt the top of a poop pyramid stick me right in my butthole!! I sprang upward while letting loose a hot, wet stream of guacamole-induced diarrhea, yelping at the top of my lungs. I managed to relieve myself while hovering above the toilet. I was actually shaking from the grossness of the situation, and I could not wipe myself enough times.
I finally crashed out of this torture chamber and rushed back to my friends, where I took several shots of straight vodka to settle my nerves. I reiterated the story to everyone and they were all instantly grossed out; but they found it hysterically funny.
To this day I am still urged to tell the pyramid story. And I refuse to step foot inside another port-a-let.
-- Joe Mammy
