The Port-a-Potty Predicament

Here’s how slow business has been: I’m so bored, I’ve resorted to writing pottie humor. My wife, Cindy, who proofs all my writings, forbade me from publishing the following piece. She’s not home at the moment, so, being bored, here it is. If she finds out and calls me on it I will defend myself by pointing out the article’s obvious correlation to sanitary engineering .

I’m an engineer, so by rights am allowed certain dorky indulgences. Two examples include my pocket protector – a mid-80’s model, white plastic, the blue ad logo long since worn away, with staples and tape holding it together. And my 1st generation Blackberry – the kind that is actually black and looks like a block of wood. I wear mine strapped to my belt on my right side because I’m left handed. My Blackberry is a kind of security blanket since my wife won’t allow me to wear my calculator that way any more.

I was at my 13-year-old son’s ballgame the other day. It was hot and I’d been dutifully drinking water. Around the 3^rd inning nature called, so to the port-a-potty I went. As I approached the lime green Ace In the Hole, located just out of play behind 1^st base, I was only half watching where I was going because my son was at bat and the other half of my attention was on him. I absently reached for the door and pulled. It had a little catch in the mechanism so I yanked harder and the door popped open. A piercing shriek followed by a loud, “JERK!” startled me. The door was ripped from my hand by the red-faced woman sitting inside. Somehow I’d not noticed that the “Occupied” icon was displayed.

“Sorry,” I blurted. A few moments later my son struck out and the door opened. The woman exited, took two steps and then squared to face me. “You know,” she seethed, “you really should pay attention to the Occupied icon before barging into one of these things. It’s bad enough for a woman to have to use one in the first place let alone being intruded upon by some lecher. I’d probably cuff you one if I weren’t married to you.”

“Gee, I said I was sorry, hon. By the way, Corey struck out.”

“Great,” she grumped and stomped off.

I stepped into the unit and was immediately intrigued by the sudden temperature gain. Outside it was 90-degrees and breezy. Inside it had to be 100-plus with not a wisp of air movement. I turned to the left toward the urinal as my ever-thinking technical mind processed thermodynamic theory in regard to this phenomenon. I unbuckled, trying my best not to let certain septic odors interrupt my absorbing train of thought.

It was then that disaster struck.

I began executing my mission when suddenly I felt a slight shifting of my belt and then a lightening of weight from my right hip. And then I heard a plastic-on-plastic collision followed by a liquidy kerplunk. Snapping my attention toward the sounds, I watched in horror as my Blackberry disappeared beneath the surface of the bluish-brown fluid in the hole.

I instinctively clamped down on my pee valve which closed with a mighty clang, or so it felt. I then silently cursed my wife. In her haste to rebuke me for an innocent gaffe, she had left the lid up. (I could go into a lengthy grouse on the topic of men vs. women and toilet seats but that might dilute the story at hand.) My Blackberry belt clasp apparently did not have a tight enough grip on my belt and had slipped through. The rig fell from my hip, bounced on the rim and caromed through the opening, perfectly obeying Newton’s Laws. I then cursed my left-handedness. Had I been right-handed my Blackberry would have been strapped to my left side and would have fallen benignly to the floor rather than into the turd tub.

Not one to panic, I paused for some analysis. There are two phases of port-a-potty use conditions, I thought. Phase 1 shall be called the pre-buildup phase. This is when the unit has been primed with blue solution but has not received sufficient deposits to constitute a buildup. Phase 2 shall be called the growing-mound phase. This occurs when an ample number of solid deposits have displaced and absorbed the initial blue solution. Phase 2 is characterized by a pyramidal-shaped heap; invariably the pinnacle being created by someone with dysentery.

The conditions in my case favored phase 1, with indications that phase 2 was not far behind. The question, of course, was should I fish or cut bait? Had it been phase 2, the answer would have been obvious: fish. Presumably, my Blackberry would have been perched on top of the pile and I could have gingerly plucked it free. A little wiping and all would have been fine. But, alas, I was jinxed with a phase 1.

How deep to the bottom? I bent over to take a closer look. Unfortunately, the evil liquor was so obscured with flotsam that my vision could not penetrate its depths.

It was then that a second disaster struck.

With no warning whatsoever my shirt pocket suddenly lightened. My hand instinctively groped for my falling pocket protector. I grasped air as my 25-year-old treasure and the pens and pencils it contained deftly made a perfect swish through the hoop and landed, plop, in the murky juice.

I’m not sure whether I felt more sorry for myself or the youngster who unsuspectingly opened the door at that moment and witnessed a grown man, sweating like a Phoenix brick layer, his pants down, bent over and reaching into a place where even youngsters know never to tread. Apparently I had failed to lock the door.

Had it been just the Blackberry I probably would have let it lie. But that pocket protector had been with me since grad school – through two marriages, two kids, three or four businesses – that kind of sentimental value doesn’t come along every day and it certainly can’t be purchased at the Sprint Store. So plunge I did and was lucky enough to grab both items in the first attempt. It turns out the liquid was only about three-inches deep. The kid at the door blanched, slammed it back shut, and ran away fearing for his life.

It’s now a few weeks later and I have a new Blackberry. I’m not sure whether the blue solution or something else did in the original. No matter, I was due for a new one anyway I suppose. I am happy to report  that my pocket protector is still proudly adorning my shirt pocket every day. I cleaned and sanitized it, of course. It’s been through so much, well, let me put it this way, neither Timex (It takes a licking…) nor Samsonite (gorilla-proof) have a thing on this future family heirloom. It is my dork badge, my good luck charm, my Ace In the Hole if you will.

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This entry was posted on Saturday, August 15th, 2009 at 10:28 am and is filed under Humor. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.