Port-a-Potties, like lawyers, are a sort of necessary evil. Sure, you could represent yourself in court (do your business in the bushes), but sometimes it makes more sense to have a professional look after things (not take a dump bare-assed behind a tent at, say, a music festival). But that doesn’t mean you have to like it (yeah!).
This week we look at Port-A-Potty perils experienced by FMLers. And where I normally think most of these people are just being huge woe-is-me whiners, this week I feel like most people have a fairly good reason to complain to the Internet masses.
But I’ll let you be the judge of that…
A case for locking doors
Today, as I went to the bathroom in a port-a-potty at a park, I forgot to lock the door. A little girl opens the door and then slams it right away. As she walked away I heard her say “no, there’s a man in there”. I’m a woman. FML
Well, see, here’s your problem: you forgot to lock the door. If you’d remembered that very simple thing, no small child would have mistaken you for a man. At least, not while you were bustin’ your stank bone in the old portable shit station.
And who forgets to lock a door, anyway? It’s like people who are surprised to get robbed when they leave their front door unlocked. Apparently, no one here is familiar with Mr. Murphy and his obscure set of laws. Or rather, his only law which says, in short: you are les dumbueue. Which is French for, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Oh, and to address that other thing: Nair.
Worst-smelling soap ever
Today, I used a porta-potty. After I came out, my mom came out of one and said “I really wish I could wash my hands.” I explained that I used the little soap bar that was on the side of the toilet in mine. She told me that was a urinal and the soap bar was a disinfectant bar. FML
How could you possibly mistake a urinal puck for a bar of soap, especially in a transient shithole? I know those little fragrant cakes are supposed to small fantastic, but they actually just smell like fantastic covered in pee. The French have a word for that, which I referenced above.
And how do you not understand basic design? If that thing truly was a sink, you wouldn’t have had to sit down to use it. Also, running water. See? Les dumbueue.
I hope you fall in next time. You disgust me.
A handle on the situation
Today, the handle in the port-a-potty broke off, with me inside. FML
In a situation like this, I look to the French, and their less-frequent-use of the word dumbueue, which in this case means, “You poor son of a bitch, I wish that hadn’t happened to you, even though I barely know you also I’m French.”
I also hope you employed the time-honoured technique of Kicking The Fucking Door In So You Can Breathe Non-Poopy Oxygen Again™. Because if you just sat there with the “handle” in your hands, then I’d have to use the definition of les dumbueue that I introduced up above, fuckface.
All of this reminds me of another word I’m quite fond of. It’s German, and it’s called schadenfreude. It means “I laugh with glee when you poop you pants,” or something. And even though you probably didn’t — because you were totally in a mobile shitorium — I’m still gleeful at your misfortune.
Photo by Sharyn Morrow on Flickr. Used under Creative Commons License.