Don't Misunderstand Me

Superman, Daddoo and Jackson

I hate Porta-Potties.

I know, I know . . . who the hell likes them?

But I refuse to use them. I will hold it until I explode, rather than step into one of those disgusting, stinky hell-holes.

When I was in high school, our Country Club built a new clubhouse. So during my golf season that year, our team was stuck with a Johnny-on-the-Go.

On one particular day, I really had to go. I contemplated going in the bushes, but decided I couldn't trust the girls to let me have some peace. I decided to suck it up and go in the Johnny.

Surely it couldn't be that bad. It was kind of an off-season for golf; there couldn't be too many people filling it.

I held my breath and rushed to finish. I went to open the door and

it wouldn't open.


Really it was perhaps my worst nightmare. I began to panic. I felt the walls close in on me and just knew that somehow, my only way out was going to somehow end up with me slipping through . . . well . . . the big hole.

It took me what seemed like hours, but was really only a few seconds, to jimmy the door enough that I was able to burst forth out into the open, fresh air.

That sealed the deal. No. More. Porta-potties.

I talked to my dad this weekend and told him about my night at Club Rodeo. I tried to explain why I wasn't too excited about getting up close and personal with the bulls. "I figure, I've been to a rodeo before."

"Yeah and you wouldn't go in the outhouse!"

Apparently, even as a little kid, I knew Porta-Potties were death traps.

I have to admit, though, at first I was confused. I didn't realized he meant I wouldnt use the outhouse. I thought he meant I wouldn't go to the stripclub outside of Lawrence, The Outhouse.

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