"Okay now a little to the left. No! Not your left, my left! Whoa, whoa, whoa..."

“Okay now a little to the left. No! Not your left, my left! Whoa, whoa, whoa…”


Luckily for me, each morning this week some thunderously loud road work has been taking place on the street directly in front of my house.  This morning I was sitting at my desk ironically in mid-Spew when I see some construction guy going right by my window with what was a porta potty obviously packed to the brim carried in one of those Excavators—which I only know the name of because I looked it up for a Casino joke in a previous Spew.  But they’re those giant yellow muthafuckas with what looks like a huge arm sticking out of it’s cab and a big spiked bucket on top like a reversed spoon.  They’re serious business.  And no business was more serious than the business at hand today.

For nothing is as noble as being put in charge of the well-being of your fellow worker’s bowel befoulings.  Man, who did that poor bastard piss off—no pun intended—at the job site?  If my boss told me to play hot tamale with plastic outhouse, I’d go dump it on his car.  Because the way the Excavator is built, the fuckin porta potty is like two feet from the poor bastard’s windshield as he’s driving.  Talk about staring death in the face.

By the way, it’s no bargain driving, but imagine the picnic of being stuck behind that fuckin guy in traffic.  Especially in that mile-long-some-asshole-had-an-accident type traffic.  On a sweltering hot day.

It’s always made me wonder though: how in the hell do they clean those disgusting “breath” traps and where the fuck do they put the unspeakable contents?  A toxic waste dump wouldn’t take that mess.  And forget where they move the vile scatalogical soup to, how do they move it at all?  They can’t turn it upside down and shake it like salt shaker.  Do they tip it over on someone’s lawn when nobody’s looking?  Do they suck the awful muck out with a big hose?  But then what is the hose connected to?  A big-ass truck that has the waste of like a zillion other porta potties?  A big, brown truck.  But once again, then what?  I mean how many times are you gonna play hot potato with a truck full of doody?  Especially when nobody in their right mind wants anything to do with it.

I’ve racked my brains for hours on end trying to tackle this conundrum.  I’ve broken more chalkboards than I can remember with my frantic scribblings.  Due to their intricacy and length, I wrote down all sorts of theories and equations on rolls on toilet paper, but alas, a late night run to taco bell and I’m afraid such revolutionary mathematics went the way of the Library of Alexandria.  Still I forged on.  I’m like Matt Damon in “Good Will Hunting”, but unfortunately even a genius of his magnitude would be humbled by such a Sisyphean task.

Like the origin of the cosmos or the meaning of life, the ancient riddle of the re-usable porta potty is just one of those eternal mysteries that man isn’t meant to solve.


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