02 September 2005

In parking lots the potties blow, beside the cars parked row on row

They stand on a windswept hilltop, plastic cenotaphs, bearing mute witness to an event that happened many years ago. They memorialize a horrible karmic realignment; a drunken fouling; a tragic arse-bluing.

To the uninformed, they are simply Porta-Potties, Job Johnnies; portable construction site outhouses. They are placed in strategic locations about the parking lot of a large football stadium. To the ignorant throngs, they are nothing more than a temple of relief. Pumped dry after every game, they are then partial filled with a deep blue disinfectant. Unless needed, the vulgar masses will ignore them on passing, shedding not a single tear for what they signify.

To those of us present that fateful day, they are a memorial.

Many years ago, so many that the statute of limitations has long since expired, Putz, his fiancé du jour, Flash and I went to a game at said stadium. We grilled, we drank, we chavved. At one point we managed to set fire to Putz’s SUV. After the game, we decided to allow the parking lot to empty while we tailgated some more.

Before long we were approached a large lummoxy fellow and a short skinny bloke who looked at us with apprehension. The combination reminded us of an excessively greasy organ grinder with his monkey.

“I schallenge you guys to a shugging contest!” Said the lummox.

“Eeep eeep eeep!” Echoed his monkey.

Putz accepted, and Flash and I looked on with amusement. Putz had never lost a chugging contest. Until that day.

The lummox, as it turned out, was a mutant beer absorbing tub, well insulated by a thick layer of human blubber. He accepted his winnings in beer.

“Where, (belch) can I go to pick up chicks around here?” He asked boozily. “Chicks dig my blue eyes.”

“Sure,” we thought. “They’re equally attracted to your prodigious girth.” However we kept our opinions to ourselves and directed him to the nearest Maison du Skanque Hoe.

It was about this time when the Lummox noticed Putz’s fiancé.

“Who’s she?” He demanded. Putz told him.

“Women don’t belong at football games” Pomposticated the Lummox. “I didn’t bring my wife here, so that I an go pick up women. Chicks dig my blue eyes, you know!”


“You may also want to try Chumley’s” Putz replied thoughtfully. “I’m sure you’ll get lucky there.” Putz gave the Lummox directions which he wrote down greedilly. After all, he was insured to get lucky there, with such deep blue, blue eyes.

Now Chumley’s is not your ordinary bar. It’s not even your ordinary gay bar. It’s a Charlie Manson / Ex-con Harley biker gay bar. Skeletor would sit in the corner of such a bar, covering his bungalow with a steel plate, while sweating in fear.

Yeah, the Lummox could get laid there.

Unable to restrain my laughter, I claimed that I had to relieve myself. I walked to the nearest Job Johnnie and gingerly opened the door. The smell was incredible. Human byproduct filled the reservoir to within inches of the top. I was grateful that I didn’t need to sit.

When I was done, a still chuckling Flash did the same. He finished up and we started back to the SUV.

“’Scuse me!” Lummox growled while shoving past us. “I gotta take a PUTZ!

The lummox had his pants about his ankles before he closed the door. Charming.

His friend apologized profusely whilst Lummox slathered and grunted. Apparently, the Lummox had crossed the line, and thrown a beer bottle at Putz who then told him to leave. We accepted monkey's apology just as Putz drove up.

“Get in” He demanded. “We need to leave before I shoot the S.O.B.” Putz put the bumper up against the Porta-Potty’s reservoir, gunned the motor and popped the clutch.

Now, you must remember that Porta-Pottys are made of flexible polyethylene.


The door burst open and out popped a screaming blue lummox. He was cheerily festooned with used bog paper and unidentified lumps. Screaming pure hatred, he charged at us, but as his pants remained about his ankles, his upper torso moved considerably faster than his feet. He quickly became a supine screaming blue lummox.

The remaining traffic parted like the Red Sea as we made our exit. I don’t know what may have happened later as I read nothing about the incident in the next day’s newspaper.

I only hope that the Chumley’s regulars dug his blue arse.

And that's the way I likes it.