Jobsite shitter chainsaw massacre
(pronounced [mass-a-cree'] a la' Arlo Guthrie)
So I was um, using the portajohn on the jobsite the other day (I install car washes). Johnny-on-the-spots are an interesting phenomenon, in that they're either surprisingly well maintained or so damned foul you need to have a completely non-functioning olfactory system to escape without wishing you could snort stale cigarettes to cleanse your palate. This particular rest-cubicle is pretty decent. Well, except when it tips over in the wind and left on the concrete is some blue stuff that will turn you off certain colors of Gatorade for a month or so. The graffiti is interesting (if only for the egregiously poor grammar and spelling), the door actually latches, and the seat is almost always piss-free.
It's been hot in St. Louis of late, and even when the dewpoint is something less than my grandfather's age, it's a mite bit uncomfortable in there - by the time you've unzipped, you're sweating. I guess that blue juice really adds to the old expression, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." At any rate, I'm dropping the kids off at the pool, and someone fires up a chainsaw. Right. Outside. The. Shitter. Door. Now, at the time, I didn't know he worked for taco bell; I just suddenly was absolutely DONE crapping. To say I was scared shitless is something of an understatement. I never gave it much thought, but now I know what went through the minds of the kids who were just done fucking when that hockey-mask fellow walked into camp.
So I was um, using the portajohn on the jobsite the other day (I install car washes). Johnny-on-the-spots are an interesting phenomenon, in that they're either surprisingly well maintained or so damned foul you need to have a completely non-functioning olfactory system to escape without wishing you could snort stale cigarettes to cleanse your palate. This particular rest-cubicle is pretty decent. Well, except when it tips over in the wind and left on the concrete is some blue stuff that will turn you off certain colors of Gatorade for a month or so. The graffiti is interesting (if only for the egregiously poor grammar and spelling), the door actually latches, and the seat is almost always piss-free.
It's been hot in St. Louis of late, and even when the dewpoint is something less than my grandfather's age, it's a mite bit uncomfortable in there - by the time you've unzipped, you're sweating. I guess that blue juice really adds to the old expression, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity." At any rate, I'm dropping the kids off at the pool, and someone fires up a chainsaw. Right. Outside. The. Shitter. Door. Now, at the time, I didn't know he worked for taco bell; I just suddenly was absolutely DONE crapping. To say I was scared shitless is something of an understatement. I never gave it much thought, but now I know what went through the minds of the kids who were just done fucking when that hockey-mask fellow walked into camp.
1 Comments:
That was some funny shit.
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