PORTAPOTTIES.

The portapottie (port-a-pottie? port-a pottie? port-a potty? wtf ever) disaster I participated in today (I say “participated” because, frankly, even if you’re in it alone, it’s a group activity) was wetter than my vagina while watching Jude Law wield a hacksaw in Repo Men. Call me crazy, but you don’t want to sit on that, right? I mean, Jude Law, yes, but a wet-from-Jude-Law-portapottie, no.

Ladies, here are effective steps to take at any music festival or redneck wedding to prevent procuring an STD from a public restroom facility (sorry bros–I’m less intimate with your portapottie experience):

1) DON’T PEE IN A PORTAPOTTIE. If this is not an option, proceed to step 2.

2) Wipe down the seat (preferably utilizing rubber gloves). Wipe it down with the poor excuse for toilet paper that the portapottie company has so graciously provided you. THEN WIPE IT DOWN WITH ALCOHOL. I don’t care if you’re at a music festival and it’s a $10 beer that would normally be $2. WIPE THAT SHIT DOWN.

3) Place toilet paper on the toilet seat. The goal here is to effectively prevent your buttocks from actually making contact with the seat.

4) Pee. Or poop, but seriously, only if you have to.

5) While relieving yourself, consider the people who are paid to remove urine (etc.) from portapotties.

6) If you’re religious, please pray for these poor souls.

7) Don’t bother wiping. You’re already contaminated.

8) Once you sober up from your music festival/redneck wedding, make an appointment with your gyno. You can send me a thank-you in the form of cash, check, or ABC store gift card.

 

FUCK PORTAPOTTIES, CAN I GET AN AMEN?

I hate “perfect moments”. They only seem to occur when I’m drunk, when I’m all “man! I wish I could live like this FOREVER”. Pretty sure this is why people become alcoholics.

So, tonight, I’m on the beach, walking with my boyfriend. Classic “perfect moment” material, no?

There’s fireworks. We’re counting crabs (33! Which, by obviously no coincidence, happens to be my LUCKY NUMBER!), holding hands and discussing our future. So involved in each other that we hardly even notice the fireworks until we walk up to the group shooting them off, just as they’re being disbanded by the beach police. I assume this interaction was just like something off of Cajun Justice, but maybe with less skulls, black magic, and painfully obvious re-created “acting”.

ANYWAY, my point is, “perfect moments” are strange. Because they’re fleeting. And that’s annoying. In my mind, heaven is walking on the beach with someone you love and counting exactly 33 crabs before you get to your destination. Also, if you’re really really good duringy our time on earth, you can watch drunk rednecks exclaim “I didn’t know you couldn’t shoot fireworks off the beach!/”Shit! Should I ditch my weed?!” before they’re carted off the shore.

 

Life is pretty okay today. CAN I GET AN AMEN?

Here’s what I would like to do to humidity.

I would like for humidity to (previously) not like the idea of children. Abhor it, in fact.

I would then like to knock humidity up.

I would subsequently like for humidity to eventually adjust to the idea of having a child. And raising it. And buying it clothes and a diaper genie and shit.

Once humidity found out the gender of its impending offspring, and got so excited that it painted the nursery green (because “green is the new blue–yes, OMG, we’re having a BOY!!”) and bought a shit ton of giraffe- and elephant-diapers, and became EXCITED ABOUT THE IDEA OF bringing a little humidityhybridbaby into the world,

I would push it down the stairs.

 

FUCK humidity.

SERIOUSLY. I want you to picture that guy sitting in front of you while you’re watching a movie. You know, the one in the trucker hat (THANKS SO MUCH, ASHTON KUTCHER!) macking on a girl that’s WAY out of his league. You know the douche. He has a ’00 rat tail. The ’00 rat tail is not like the ‘90s rattail. It’s more like “Hey! Barber! I know I’m paying you $95 out of my trust fund for this weekly haircut, but can you please continue to ignore the hair I’m growing out of the base of my neck? It fits just perfectly under my awesome ‘ironic’ hat with a super ‘ironic’ label on it”; less like “Hey! This is a cultural statement, whether from anime fandom or rednecksim [Wikipedia “rattail”—it’s all there]”.

Okay. So, you’re out on a date with this guy. Hopefully, it’s not the first date, cuz you’re all over him. Literally—I reach for my popcorn, you’re forcing your arm around him. I glance down from the movie screen and see you pecking him affectionately because HE BROUGHT YOU POPCORN WAY AFTER THE MOVIE STARTED??? Seriously??? Granted, you’re wearing one of those fore-headbands that “went out of style” about six months ago…but still. He left, returned some 10 minutes later and brought you popcorn. This deserved making out RIGHT IN FRONT OF PEOPLE WHO PAID GOOD MONEY TO WATCH A JOHNNY DEPP MOVIE???? (in a super high pitched squeal: “eeeek! Thanks baaaaby! Smackmuahmuahsmackdicksuck”) Ick.

THIS GOT ME THINKING. How the HELL do girls look at guys with rat tails and trucker hats and just enough facial hair that you know they went out of their way to groom and “manscape” (AND PROBABLY SPENT AS MUCH TIME IF NOT MORE AS YOU GETTING READY FOR THIS DATE)and see them as viable sexual candidates???? Girls! Some of us *ahemgirlattheshowingofdarkshadowsthatiattendedtonight* are selling ourselves incredibly short.

I’m now picturing that girl having sex with that douche. Let me paint you more of a word picture. Trucker hat. On your floor. Greasy hat hair. Hastily undoing with your “unique” Urban Outfitters tube top with buttonhook fastenings. His pierced (dear god—say it ain’t so!) penis and/or nipples. Pants that took a team effort to disengage because they’re too tight (remind me to rant about tight pants on men later…and Urban Outfitters) disheveled on the floor. Screaming out: “I’m the best! Where’s the PBR! Baby, call me your TALLBOY! I swear, I invented DUBSTEP!”

Wait. Back up—this is more important. Picture removing the trucker hat. Does he throw a fit? Does he demand that you not touch his hat? What, exactly, do hipsters look like without their hats on? Has anyone actually seen one? I’m picturing a trucker-hat depression on greasy hair. Maybe that’s right? ANYWAY. You’re touching the hat. You remove that hat and see whatever you see. You move your hand to his neck, making your first move. You grab his rat tail. You…vomit?

Seriously. How do you take a guy with a rat tail home? How do you HAVE SEX with him? EW. SHAME ON YOU.

I vote all rat tails be removed unless they belong to a man residing in the rural south. Like, RURAL rural south. Like, “I hate gays, equality of all races, and anything other than sex with my cousin” south.

DO YOU THINK ALL MEN ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL? DO YOU THINK YOUR COUSIN IS YOUR SOUL MATE? THEN MARRY YOUR FUCKING COUSIN. STAY OUT OF MY MOVIE THEATHERS; STAY OUT OF MY BEDROOMS. CAN I GET AN AMEN????