Were I a...

Were I a toilet.

Were I a toilet, I’d like to be the filthiest, ricketiest Porta-Potty at a sweltering summertime multi-day outdoor music festival.  Triple-digit temperatures and high humidity would make for a thick, weighty, lingering stench that can be smelt long before one enters the malodorous synthetic sarcophagus I’ve become, and it seems to stick to the skin and roof of one’s mouth—and no amount of tonguing can temper the taste.  I’d be covered in, not only in urine and feces, but also in a colorful, pungent cocktail of alcohol and carnival food vomit—think stale-corn-dog-tini (my “eau du toilette”).  I would have a very slight, but acutely noticeable wobble as to literally scare the crap out of people inside who, for one terrifying moment, think I’m going to tip over and spill my putrid payload atop them.  My seat would be so loosely attached that it would slide around wildly when sat upon, as though the underside were slathered in butter, and would be permanently stained with a yellow, black, and brown tie-dye.  My “cargo” would nearly reach the brim, so splash-back is all but certain, with the occasional dude inadvertently dunking his junk in my spoils.  The only toilet paper I’d possess would be the thin film that resides, glued, onto the cardboard cylinder, and though there would be plenty of hand sanitiser, the dispenser would no longer function.  I’d be an attendees last resort, with some finding it preferable to do their duty (ha!...doodie) outside, having to wipe with the random used napkins flitting by in the occasional burning breeze.

This would be me, were I a toilet.