Porta Potty (a cautionary tale of love and the illusion of plumbing)

porta potty

Porta Potty (a cautionary tale of love and the illusion of plumbing)



The Porta-Potty stood there

in the corner of the park

smelling like a dead shark

made out of bent hubcaps

and loose stool


reeking out its insides

wondering how the hell it

had all gone wrong


What’s that?


It hadn’t always been a porta-potty

Once upon a time it had possessed

what the non-bowel receptacle’d population

would call: potential


but the Porta had decided

to flush all that

the Potty had decided

to give up the best thing

that had happened to it

in exchange for a transient life


of fluffed ear hair

and margarita stained trousers

and temporary plumbing tattoos


and you know, the shit of it is


the Porta-Potty didn’t have to be

a porta-potty

I mean, fuck!

the fates weren’t holding some sort of shit stained gun

to its ‘Occupied’ stenciled mid section


there was no evil shaped super villain hiding out

on a dark balcony somewhere demanding that if Porta didn’t

spend the rest of its life letting strangers take urgent shits inside it





it was just something it had decided to do

all by itself and on its own

like a bored dog decides to spend an entire winter smelling its own asshole

and humping chew toys

or Donald Trump decides to yelp like a bloated turtle

and collect the hatred of others like a manic prick


(Historical Note: I’m pretty sure Donald Trump has an old time’y

butterfly net instead of a dick)


(I mean) Fuck!


the Porta-Potty could’ve been

a scientist or a hairy butt model

or the assistant goddamn manager at Sears!


the Potty could have evolved past

the lazy mediocrity of average height polyethylene walls

whose sole purpose being: to shield

a partially civilized world from the sight of a plastic urinal

resembling a nightmarish sink and a hole

filled with partially digested corn dog

and chili fries that have forgone the former shape of fries

while disturbingly maintaining

the consistency of chili

and what appears to be the end bits

of the bun


Porta-Potty didn’t have to end up like this


DJ Porta P could’ve spent its life

sleeping on real pillows

that smelled like the coolest goddamn girl

to have ever inspired snowboards

and eat caramels like a champ


but the Porta Potty was stupid

and had lost all of that in a rash moment

of overinflated guacamole

mixed with a lousy day of shitty tips


life is choices and old movies

and with its choices already chosen

the Potty, it perched there, thinking about

the adult ed class it never signed up for

and counting the minutes that lapped

between and endless puddles of little kids

and fully bowel-grown adults

that just endlessly stood there

waiting their turn

to dive inside its insides

(like love)

and start shitting

and stop shitting

and start shitting again


“It’s a living.” said the Porta-Potty

and also it was a late Saturday afternoon

because in the Potty’s world it was always

late Saturday afternoon

and the Pot was surrounded by human beings

compacted with excrement

treading sand in dead grass


Today Porta was being shit in by a bunch of strangers

attending a little league t-ball tournament


Last week it collected the waist of overweight

loud noise enthusiasts at a Monster Truck rally


Next week it’s going to hang out beside

one of those inflatable castles filled with bouncy balls

for the grand opening of another goddamn mall


she deserves better

than a modern day manifestation of outdoor plumbing

she’s too goddamn pretty for all of that

she deserves more

than a lidless toilet hole

that’s in one place waiting to be shit in one day

and in a completely different place waiting

to be shit in the day after that


and whose biggest ambition in this life

is to maybe pick up and spend a summer

renting himself out in the UK

because over there they call porta-pottys


and it thought it made his job sound cooler

like that


“No I’m not a fucking porta-potty. I’m a Portaloo!”

the Porta envisioned himself saying eventually

“So you’d best better show some respect!”




she deserves more than a portable toilet shed that can be

so easily tipped over in the wind


she deserves something permanent

she deserves a real goddamn bathroom!


a goddamn bathroom that will always be there for her


the sort of room with one of those recline-abe

movie theater chairs where the toilet seat usually lives

and a huge picture window that looks

out across the most interesting bits of the cosmos

and toilet paper woven humanely from free range unicorn hair

and instead of the towel racks holding towels

they hold pizza!

she deserves a bathroom with a great big view of the planets

and that you can eat pizza in

and when the toilet’s flushed

it plays her favorite Gary Clark Jr songs


and like Prince doesn’t let anyone

else do their Prince stuff in his bathroom

except Prince


this bathroom is off limits to other people’s bottoms

this bathroom is monogamously devoted


the kind of bathroom that has a big sign

carved above the door in her favorite gummy bear color

that says:


“Gosh, you look beautiful today.

Try not to worry about this year’s elections.

This bathroom is for you”

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