Flying Port-a-potty Adventures

I’m not saying that accessible double wide port-a-potties aren’t a good thing. Cripples, like all God’s children, have to pee.

But the last time I went into one of those I had a really harrowing adventure that taught me a serious lesson about life. I had to pee like a horse so I rolled into an accessible port-a-potty and latched the door. Well then suddenly a big storm kicked up and the port-a-potty lifted up off the ground and felt like it was hurdling through the air. I was scared shitless, hanging onto the grab bars for dear life for what seemed like an hour but it was probably only about 30 seconds.

The port-a-potty landed with a thump. I opened my eyes. No more storm. I was still alive! When I opened the door there was a blinding blast of sunlight. A bunch of people were staring at me suspiciously and none of them was more than three and a half feet tall. It was a strange village where the buildings sort of looked like the Kremlin made out of gingerbread.

"Wow!" I said. "Munchkins!

The little people in the front of the pack then pulled out machine guns and their commander said, "Don't you EVER call us that!" He ordered me to come out of the port-a-potty slowly and not try to any funny business or else. So I did what he said. He stepped up and looked me over.

“Are you a terrorist?” he said

“No!” I pleaded. “I was just trying to take a piss!”

He scowled and told me no one was allowed to be within the borders of this village if they were more than 45 inches tall. I recognized his face. He was the leader of that radical movement of little people nationalists who believe that the establishment of a separate homeland for little people is the only way for them to be liberated from the “tyranny of heightism.” It looked like they finally achieved their utopian dream and here I was crashing their party. So the commander ordered me banished and the armed little people marched me to the border, giggling as their bayonets poked me in the ass.

They slammed the village gate behind me and there I was, stranded. The only road was made out of yellow cobblestones, which really sucked ass because have you ever tried rolling a wheelchair over cobblestone? It’s like roller skating on gravel. It especially sucks when you have a full bladder, which I did because in all the commotion I never did get around to taking that piss.

So there I was slowly bumping my way down the cobblestone road when I came across this silver statue. It sounded like the statue was trying to tell me something but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. I got closer but I still didn’t understand. It sounded like he was saying gong or kong or maybe dong. Then I noticed that on the ground by his feet was a bong. That must be what he wanted! So I lit up the bong and held it up to his mouth. But he could barely move his lips, let alone take a hit and a tear rolled out of his eye. So I took a hit and blew the smoke in his face and soon his face loosened up real good and he said, “Oh thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou! You’re a saint! Gimme more please! Moooore!” So I kept taking hits and blowing smoke in his face until his upper body was loose enough for him to do the bong himself and he took more and more hits until he was as limber as a ballerina. The silver man told me that he had real bad arthritis and the only thing that makes him feel better is smoking pot. He said last time he had a flare up he dropped his bong and couldn’t reach it and soon he stiffened up and got stuck in the position I found him. But after a few hits he started singing and dancing about how the thing he wants more than anything in the world is for pot to be legal so he can smoke it in fucking peace. Then he asked me what I wanted more than anything in the world. I said I just wanted to take a piss.

The silver man said there was this dude in charge of everything called the wizard and he lived up the road and maybe if we went and talked to him he’d make pot legal and give me place to take a piss.

I don’t remember much about what happened next. I seem to recall something about a talking lion and hot air balloon but who knows because I took so many hits off that bong I couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t anymore. I still can’t.

All I know is eventually I found myself home in bed. And as I looked around my familiar, comfy room, I realized something important about my life. It’s boring. It’s always the same old shit. No flying port-a-potties, no diminutive militant nationalist, no dancing silver dudes with killer weed. Just the same old shit. Boring.





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