Alright, bro. That’s my bluff. Knock politely on this polyethylene door enough, and I’ll come out rubbing sanitary gel hands up. Don’t shoot. You want this Port-a-Potty? Guess she’s all yours, man. Knock yourself out.
Nothing personal. Another man’s gotta darken the shitter. I understand. Had her plenty. Anachronistic Soulful Slide Guitarist Man at this fringe-folk festival really vibed out my sphincter, and two days ordering Gorilla Burritos with extra cilantro from that food truck with door flames did some Harry Potter entrails-expelling curse on me.
So I was peacing out, can-riding, meditating on dragons, drones, and the music of David Crosby, not wanting to rush myself, biologically speaking, when you started this little latrinal encroachment. But we occupy a free country, brah. Nah, this time is not our own. Didn’t George Harrison say that? Regardimalous, treat her well, cousin. Everything’s chili, homes.
For the final score, though, nothing like maybe unusual was going down in that Rayon blue outhouse, broski. No scatological acts of publically-funded horror, chief. Just cleaning the pipes, man. Getting back the factory pre-sets. Because trust me, you’re inheriting the Cadillac of shitters, son. No nasty smears. I’d break bread on those urinal cakes. And the watermelon scent of the hand soap is like ripping some Jenni Craig. You’ll shoot your balls to the universe’s edge in there, boy. Let a dump leave you like a substitute Sunday School teacher getting half-Nelson’d by a priest looking like 1980s Tom Cruise.
Until some impatient asshole’s two fucking inches from the flimsy door, tightening up your Side B-hole, setting your whole nervous system brittle as china in a Brian Wilson padlocked rehab room, as some total chulo-fuck stranger’s breathing down your neck making you think he’ll tip the whole operating headlong through the plastic fencing if he doesn’t get in.
But, no hard feelings, we can be gentlemen about this. It’s all business. Life a circle, man. And when you enter that mobile sanitation station spraypainted with the 10-digit phone number, not-so-unobvious pun catch phrase, with names of local, embittered ex-boyfriends’ girls on the wall, and smelling walrus breath as you add to the 35-pound pile of Tator Tot Not Dish three feet below you, I’m sure you’ll feel like you’ve entered your four walls of freedom, too. So I’m going to hope like hell the guy behind you won’t be a hard-ass and crash your inner sanctum, count the number of paper towels or smell for reefer, lording over you with his perfect-fucking, Promethean recall of bodily functions acting like he’s never been up on Big Muddy Island without a paddle.
You know what, Lewis & Clark? If he does, if he’s uncool like that and not living out the ethos of this festival at all of brothership and tolerance and anti-corporate hip-hop, well then you just walk out breezy with your head held high like your grunders were going to be checked for racing stripes on a live taping of Good Morning America, like you’d been stacking insufficient funds notices at First Give-a-Fuck Bank and Trust for weeks.
Because we’re just travelers, you and me. And the world needs us right now. So go shit your brains out. Lift up your leg like a Conquistador on an indigenous hut you’re marking for Queen Isabella and piss with dignity and thoroughness in a urinal sign-of-the-cross. Listen, I’m not landlord. You’re not tenant. We’re both just people in all of this.
So when they sing of us years from now, let them say we shared this Port-a-John duty-free, without fixating on property or ownership or who may have or may have not valid intestinal reasons to spend the last 15 minutes behind that closed door.
Let’s be better than that! We’re just yards away from the Timber Road Organic Co-Op Stage at this weekend’s regional autumnal blaze festival, c’mon! Look, I’m not even slamming the door.
Because you know why? I don’t own her. I know you think I do. But I don’t. She’s all yours, man. What you do in there is what you do and none of my business. Just watch your stream. Because she ricochets like a muthafucker.
Front page image courtesy of Jason Taellious .