Porta Potty Review

I’ve spent the majority of my adult life trying to avoid the porta potty.  They are nasty at best and contagious at worst, but let’s face it, when we have to use them, all other options are long since gone.  What I didn’t know when travelling to Alaska is that the porta potty is the standard restroom for patrons at most establishments.  I might add that I am a germ freak too and the most you can hope for is some hand sanitizer in these places. 

I assume the prevalence of these stinky phone booths has something to do with the 9 months of brutal winter, freezing pipes, or frozen septic tanks in Alaska, but the why really doesn’t matter when you have a nervous bladder and are a 4-a-day squatter.  Being the Boy Scout that I am, I go prepared.  I  have my hand sanitizer and emergency toilet paper like a good boy should, but I’m was painfully ill prepared for the unseen toilet trauma that abounds in Alaska. 

Case-in-point:  I was just about to leave on a fly-out fishing charter when I felt the grumbling.  I know that when we get in the plane, land on a lake, and sit in a little boat for the remainder of the day, there would be few bear free opportunities for me to do my necessary.  So, I asked the charter if they had a rest room I could use.  They pointed outside to some oversized Tupperware and I opted to make a quick drive back to town.  I got back to the highway and saw a very nice gas station and restaurant.  Upon entry, I asked for the restroom and was quickly pointed back outside to an unholy box of filth.  Time was of the essence, so I did what I had to do and was finishing up when it all went wrong. 

I noticed there was no paper, but pulled out my stash and tried to clean up.  As I did, I must have lost focus at one point because I inadvertently brushed the back of my hand across the underside of the seat.  To my horror, I pulled my hand back into view and saw what looked like a melted Snickers bar on the back of my hand.  Indeed, I had no less than a half inch thick smear of feces across the entire back of my hand and 4 fingers.  No, it was not my own.  I panicked.  I freaked.  I didn't know what to do and was shaking violently.  I clumsily used the tiny remnant of paper that was left in a fruitless attempt to clear the muck.  I check the hand sanitizer and it was dry.  I rushed back into the store and begged the guy to let me wash my hands.  He smiled and refused.  I pleaded with him, but he didn’t budge.   At this point I contemplated 3 things.
1) Cut off the hand and wait for an ambulance.  They would have disinfectant with them when they arrived.
2)  Burn the hand with fire until all flesh and feces was ash.  I'd worry about my typing career later. 
3)  Cut off the hand, then set the severed hand ablaze...3 seemed like the logical choice.

 Instead, I ran to the isle, bought a bottle of dish soap and about 2 gallons of water and headed back to the counter.  I fished my wallet out of my pocket with my clean hand but handed the clerk the money with the filthy one.  Prick deserved Hep A and Hep B, and on that day, I was serving up both.  I then ran outside and washed over and over until the soap and water was gone.

I looked at my hand throughout the day, wondering if it would ever feel like my own again.  When I got home, I showered for an hour and scrubbed the nails and hand until they were raw and almost bloody.  I didn't sleep that night, and really haven't had a full night's rest since. 

Now, it has been a month since the incident and I still can't look at, let alone eat, chocolate of any kind.  I'm not the same person I was before.  At this point, I don't think I ever will be.  Damn you porta potty, damn you to a fiery Hell.  Zero Stars!  Next time, I'll take my chances with the bears. 



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