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 Finding Evil In The PottiesPosted 10.04.2005 by Splatterbuns (70)
After Goatroper's tale of port-o-potty bliss, I figured I'd contrast it with an awe-inspiring tale regarding a far less wholesome dump place.
It was a hot Saturday towards the end of June when my girlfriend and I, along with some of our friends, decided to head to the Taste of Chicago. This was several years ago, so the Taste was still primarily a showcase of fifty or so local restaurants, each serving snack-sized portions of select entrees for only slightly more than snack-sized prices. Unlike today, it was still a place one could eat ten to fifteen different items over the course of a day without spending hundreds of dollars. As it turned out, I would spend far less than predicted. The food was good. The beer was not, but I drank it anyway. After about an hour the urge to pee was becoming an issue. The Taste can attract crowds upwards of 200,000 people a day, so if you're with a group, it's generally best to stick together or you'll probably not see them again. Once the group had concurred that a potty stop was in order, we made our way to one of the many strategically-located collections of port-o-potties. With the sheer number of people eating and drinking, I don't think there were enough portable toilets in the world to keep the toilet areas wait-free. This particular cluster consisted of twenty or so toilets all in a single row, with lines at each of them. My friends and I milled about in the small crowd of toilet lingerers, trying to spot a ‘good one.' There's a whole science to identifying an acceptable crapper, but the look on the previous occupant's face as they emerge is generally the most reliable indicator of cleanliness -- or lack thereof. The urge to pee was reaching very uncomfortable levels as I debated which line to enter. And then, toward the far end of the line of poo-pits, I spied it: a shitter with the occupied sign halfway between green and red. Either someone didn't understand the etiquette of portable toilets and was about to be surprised at a rather delicate moment, or my wait was over. I hastily made my way to the hopefully-unoccupied stall. I slowly pushed on the door to avoid any surprises. The door creaked open and a brief glance inside revealed it was indeed mine for the using. I quickly slipped inside, the door banging shut behind me. No sooner had I locked myself in than I saw it. Hanging from the urinal was something that frightens and puzzles me to this very day: a latex surgical glove smeared in feces. I gasped. I backed up in panic, crashing hard into the wall behind me. The person in the next stall banged back in protest, and -- in what I can only imagine was alcohol-inspired spontaneous mob action -- the occupants of all the shitters in the row began banging on the walls. It was like a bad prison movie. In the little plastic booth the sound was deafening; combined with the horror in front of me, the room began to feel very hot. I began to panic. What to do? I had to pee, but the thought of pulling Mr. Wiggly out in a room where something so terrible had recently transpired was revolting. In fact, as I stared wide-eyed at the indescribable mess in front of me, I realized there are only a few ways in which a poo-smeared glove appears in a public port-o-potty. The whole situation was revolting. I had to get out, and quickly. Once my mind was made up, the door was unlocked with lightning speed and I crashed through the door, nearly landing on my friend Jim, who had seen me make a break for the half-occupied pooper and had formed a line behind me. All I could utter at that moment was, "Dude, don't go in there." And then, as only a true friend would do, Jim flung the port-o-potty wide open, pointed at the offending glove, and shouted, "You sick fuck! What were you doing in there?" I was mortified. The people in line behind Jim gathered around the open door and uttered a collective gasp, turning to me with horror in their eyes. "It wasn't me," I offered weakly, realizing that there was no explaining this away. I was a monster to this horde of fest-goers, and nothing I could say would make a difference. I turned and quickly walked away, trying to slip into the crowd but still remain close enough to see the rest of the people in my group. And at about that time, a tearful girlfriend emerged from one of the middle potties. She was visibly shaken and noticeably wet. As I made my way towards her, I got my second shock of the day: she was wet with the contents of the poop trough she had just been using. The full story spouted from her lips the moment she spied me. As she described it, some "asshole" had decided to bang on a port-o-potty and then everyone started to do it. It seems that some of the people milling about behind the toilets decided to get in on the action and were banging from the outside as well. Some overaggressive perpetrator had smacked into her stall with unnecessary force, causing it to rock. While the toilet had righted itself, the jostling was enough that some of the contents of the bowl worked their way up the hose connecting the urinal to the holding tank. Blue poo-water was ejected on to her and her clothing. She had cleaned up as much as one can with only toilet paper, but she was still damp -- and, as one couldn't help but notice, somewhat aromatic. At any rate, I left the Taste early that day a changed man, burdened with the knowledge that human depravity knows no bounds. Oh, if anyone cares, I ended up peeing in between two buildings as we walked to the train. Post new comment
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