Tag Archives: bathroom humor

FYI: I am an Adult

24 Jun

So this is a thing I realized today:  I find port-o-potties hilariously funny.  Like, all the time.  I don’t know what it is about them.  They just make me giggle.  And this is not a new thing.  I think I have always found them funny.  So I remember this one time when I was little I was in the car with my mom and I all of a sudden wondered to myself,

Self, how do they get port-o-potties from one place to another?

And wouldn’t you know it, about 5 minutes later a pick-up truck with not one, not two, but three port-o-potties on the back drove right on by!  It made total sense!  Up to that point I was trying to think of all the different possibilities: dropped by helicopter? Towed in? Placed on some sort of motorized platform with wheels and directed there via a remote computing device?  (I didn’t say I was a logical child.)  This turn of events had three distinct effects: (1) I was very excited; (2) I laughed really hard; (3) I was impressed by the speed with which the universe answered my extremely burning silent inquiry.  Maybe there was a god?

Anyway, fast-forward a few years.  I developed this nasty, unintentional habit of timing my summer runs for exactly when some sort of service came to clean the port-o-potty right by the Ocean Parkway entrance to Prospect Park.  I don’t know if any of you have ever walked by when a port-o-potty is being cleaned but it is one of the worst smells ever.  And it travels.  I would be like 1/2 mile away and I would all of a sudden get a waft of this disgusting aroma and realized that, damnit, I had done it again!  And then I would spend the next 1/2 mile trying to breath only through my mouth while simultaneously feeling a great deal of sadness for whatever poor bastard was tasked with that particular job.  I mean, can you imagine?  Being like, right there while all the nasty stuff from the port-o-potty hole comes up through a tube into the back of the truck?  And then having to walk around with that odor stuck to your clothes?! (I have a theory that stinky particles are stickier than nice-smelling ones and that is why garbage mens’ clothes smell like garbage whereas florists clothes do not smell like flowers.)  Between the feelings of pity and the slight odor-induced nausea I would also be sort of giggly because of course I went running at exactly the time when the port-o-potty was being cleaned again.  I mean, what are the odds?!

And then today, I was walking around and there was this port-o-potty and on it was painted the name of the company and do you know what it was?  Rent-A-Unit.  Okay, so if you were to come up to me one day and be all,

Rebekah, if you were to guess what the company Rent-A-Unit has on offer what would it be?

I really don’t think I would guess a port-o-potty.  No, sir. Off the top of my head I can think of one or two things I would be likely to guess and they both are closely related to the possible usages of the male anatomy outside of urination.  There are just so many possible funny names for port-o-potty companies that I felt really let down by this one.  It saddened me.

Okay, and now for the last thing which is the funniest thing that has ever happened to me in relation to port-o-potties. So the other day I was walking down my street past this construction site and I saw what looked like a port-o-potty with the door ajar.  On the side was painted “Call-A-Head,” which I think is a superb name for a port-o-potty company.  As I approached the structure I kept repeating in my head,

Do not look in the potty….do not look in the potty…do not look in the potty…

I mean, really, you never know what could be hiding within the confines of a random moveable toilet.  There could be someone in there with his or her pants down.  Or a possum.  Or, I don’t know, some birds that would come flying out right when you walk by, scaring the shit out of you.  But of course I ignored my own logic and peaked into the potty.  What I saw was hilarious.  There, inside the potty, was a man in some sort of outfit — security guard? — sitting at a tiny little desk doing paper work.  His office was a potty.  And I thought to myself,

Man, if I find myself sometime down the line waking up, getting myself Dressed and then heading to the office except that my office is not really an office but is instead a head, I would be very sad.

How does one put on an outfit that looks Serious and Professional and then commute to work and then go into a potty and sit at a teeny tiny desk and take themselves, or their jobs, seriously?  I would just laugh all day long.

The end.

Don’t You Wish You Were Cool Like Us?

22 Mar

I know that a while back I wrote a blog post about how much I love my friends.  Maybe some of you think that one post on such a topic would be enough but I disagree.  My friends are just really super awesome.  By the end of this post you are (a) going to think me and my friends are all incredibly weird and you’ll thank your lucky stars that you only read about our antics on the interweb, (b) you will want to come hang out with us all the time because we’re funny (c) you will oscillate between those two things, which is normal, but eventually will you come to the dark side AKA the side where you are friends with us or (d) you will be totally grossed out and never read my blog again.  Anyway, here is why my friends are awesome:

So yesterday I spent the day sort of rewriting an article for a magazine I occasionally contribute to.  (You can read my past article here!  It’s about consent!)  I had to rewrite it because my editor was, shall we say, displeased that the direction my article took was only (in my estimation) 70% related to the proposal I had sent her back in January.  Apparently when you write for other people you can’t just write about what you’re interested in at that exact moment, you have to somehow get back to what you were interested in months prior.  Live and learn, right?  Anyway, so I had to do some fine-tuning so that the article I wrote better reflected the approved topic.  I spent the better part of the morning/early afternoon working on that and then I decided to take a stroll to visit my friend Heather at work.  She is nice and fun and you should all love her.  Also, she is apparently gifted in the art of cleaning eyeglasses.  I digress.  On my walk to visit Heather I texted one of my friends to see how her second week of work at her new job went and I received the following reply:

“Things are getting busier and making more sense…. (smiley face)… best part of farting in my own office is that I can open my own window.”

I replied that having my own window that I could open at my leisure, but especially after farting, was my new goal in life.  Not in so many words but she got the point because she, like, gets me.  Anyway, no more than a half hour later, and out of nowhere, I received a g-chat from a different friend that led to the following conversation:

Friend: can you remind me tomorrow that I ate beets today?
Me: Yes.
Friend: Thank you! (You understand.)
Me: I had beets on Wednesday night and set myself a phone alarm for Thursday morning.

If you don’t understand why that last conversation was funny then you don’t pay even nearly enough attention to your bowel movements which, in my personal opinion, is ill-advised.  Also, you clearly don’t talk to your friends enough about poop which is unfortunate.  I have this sort of friend-o-meter whereby I know that I am really, truly friends with someone when we can talk about poop together.  And not just like, me telling stories about my own poop but us having a real and honest exchange about it.  I have a lot of poop stories.  I think talking about the embarrassing bathroom things that happen really sort of demystifies the whole thing.  Let me tell you a story about what happened to me recently (you might never look at me the same again or touch my left hand, FYI).

So recently I was in Peru for a trip with one of my friends.  And we were at this cafe and I had to use the bathroom because I pretty much always have to use the bathroom. I inherited my dad’s stomach, something I am not in the least bit thankful for.  Anyway, I went up into the little art/book/miscellany store above the cafe to use the bathroom and realized, too late as it turned out, that there was no toilet paper.  Not only was there no toilet paper, but there also were no paper towels.  Catastrophe!  So I did what any well-traveled individual would do:  I wiped my ass with my left hand.  So there I was, wet and clean butt, wet and unclean hand, pants down, standing in this teeny tiny little bathroom above a cafe on a random street in Lima.  What to do now?  Obviously, I had to wash my hands but here was the little trick: I somehow had to dry my ass without using any paper products because there weren’t any.  Luckily, I had managed to keep my right hand both clean AND dry and there was the leftover cardboard tube from the paper towels sitting to the right of the sink.  Oh, happy day.  So I, by turning the tube inside-out, managed to semi-dry my ass with that and my dry right hand (more absorbent than you might suspect!) and then use my right elbow to turn the water on as hot as it could go to wash my hands about 12 million times.  I then went downstairs, looked at my friend and said:

“You might want to bring napkins up there when you go.  There was an…incident.” I think looked meaningfully at my left hand.

She understood immediately.  And that is why my friends are awesome.  (And also why journalists really need to not complain about the fact that they had to, GASP!, throw their toilet paper away in a garbage can next to the toilet instead of in the toilet while covering the Sochi Olympics.  I think probably they have done worse and that there were more pressing social issues surrounding those games than plumbing that can’t handle an influx of paper.  Just sayin’.)  Oh! And this one other thing.  Sometimes my dad tells jokes and my one friend does this with them.  Don’t you wish you were cool like us?