Naturally, the tailgate is in a giant parking lot or field and not at all close to a traditional, permanent bathroom. Granted, feral dogs and feral homeless people may utilize this locale for their dumpage, and part of you thinks you’re stealthy enough to pull off the public urination. However, another, more-sober, part of you ponders the potential catastrophe when one of those little rat children that are always around tailgate mistakenly happens upon your session during their Hide and Seek game, an off-duty cop notices, and suddenly you’re a sex offender for the next twenty-five years. The first hint of doody hits you and your choice becomes clear. Grabbing another beer you head off towards the Porta Potties.
Despite having drank enough at this point to sedate a small pony, anxiety sets in. You chose the shortest line out of habit, but neglected to factor in the aftermath the four overweight, unquestionably-celibate, butter-on-everything types in front of you might leave. The reality sets in too late, as the other queues have grown too long. Switching lines now would cost you ten minutes, ten minutes where you’re unnecessarily absent from drinking games or barbecuing. You know you took the road less traveled and now you’re stuck in line behind four individuals who aren’t as quick on their feet and have an above-average amount of bodily circumference to traverse in order to wipe.
Still wary, you’re hoping this plastic coffin of smells and filth you’re about to enter isn’t too bad. With the original line leader in said stink mausoleum and the fourth person wandering away, likely unaware you will not honor his “Five-sies” call, you’re two people away from blast off. You’ve made your choice and know this transportable bucket of poop isn’t just the obvious answer—it’s the only answer. The Louie Anderson doppelganger exits the bathroom and makes an inauspicious grimace. You’re now on-deck to be on-deck to what could be a not-so-beautiful disaster.
It’s all about perception. You have a revelation and realize this is one of those crisis-opportunities those self-proclaimed eastern medicine gurus are always so eager to mention. Preparing for the worst, you remember what it was like traveling abroad, constantly worried that the next bathroom would be nothing more than an open sewer with a mounted SuperSoaker serving as the pseudo-bidet. It never came close to that, but you were always ready. And, frankly, when you returned home with no Do-it-For-the-Story moment from an overseas bathroom you were a little disappointed.
The adrenaline courses throughout your body as the one remaining plump, mayonnaise-sandwich-eating man enters. Nothing matters except getting back to tailgate at this point. You’ve “cued up” your body to minimize the time from you enter to the moment of eruption. Strategically, you down the rest of your beer and take a deep breath. It doesn’t matter if it looks like a chocolate syrup factory exploded in there—you’ll do what you have to do and anything abhorrently repellant will just be part of the adventure to regale your friends with once you return to tailgate.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.
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