Open letter to a D-bag

I disappeared for a while, and I apologize to my loyal fans who actually noticed (I heart you).

What had happened was…I had to present some thesis material at my writing workshop, so I abandoned blogging in lieu of thesis work (what? where are my priorities! I know), and then I went out of town, and then I had to catch up on the thesising since I was out of town, and then I got so overwhelmed by everything that has happened since I last wrote that my brain stopped working and smoke came out of my ears.

But here it is, on the eve of when another 10 pages are due for my thesis, of which I am only halfway finished, and my alarm is set for 5am to ensure I get tennis and zumba in before finishing my writing, and I figure, What better time to start blogging than NOW??

Unfortunately, I still have so much to say that it is just a jumbled mess of nonsensical anecdotes in my head, that range from dancing at Roswell’s “premiere nightclub” (i.e. it’s only nightclub, and also a bowling ally); the top ten ways you know you aren’t really interested in someone even though you’re trying to be (for example, if the phoenetics of their name don’t match up with the spelling of their name and you can’t abbreviate it with ease while writing, and this bothers you, that’s a good start) ;  spin class as a religious experience; my most recent tennis tournament involving opponents who suffer from “deafness and Alzeihmers,” so said one player about her partner,  though Holly and I sincerely questioned that player’s mental stability; to walking the dog because I question my dog’s mental stability.

I will get to some of those later, when I have more than burning midnight oil to go off of. For now, I just want to mention my sincere hatred for people who can’t respect porta-potties (or porta-johns, or plastic houses of crap, whatever you call them). This is a kindly addressed letter of grievance to whoever entered the tennis court lavoratory before me.

(warning: disturbing content)

Dear Disgusting Douche Bag Who Ought To Rot In Dante’s 3rd Circle of Hell,

Okay, first of all, please understand that NO ONE LIKES to use the porta-potty. It is a flushless house of human waste, and although ours manages to somehow smell like flowers, it harbors sights and smells from other human beings I’d rather not be exposed to. But sometimes there are emergencies and for those of us who have small bladders, playing tennis can be particularly jarring and miserable.

As such, the other day, I was forced yet again to use the stupid porta-potty. Now, let me first say I’ve learned to take my own tissue, thanks to whoever thought it was fun to keep pulling on the roll until all the TP was furnished on the floor or stuffed in random crevices around the walls. That was incredibly annoying, and a different kind of waste. But alas, I have learned to come prepared.

Also–can I just take a moment to express my concern regarding people who drive to the tennis courts JUST TO USE THE PORTA-POTTY. Who does that?? They have my greatest sympathy if that’s the best option for a toilet they have, but come on, the family of five in the sedan with rims? Often, though, they are men in trucks, generally the ancient F-150s, that pull right up to the doors of the bathroom, go inside, and then leave. They don’t playing tennis or basketball or walk the bike trail or hang out in the park. They come just for the bathroom. It makes me feel like they’re robbing us somehow, but of what, I don’t know. Sanitation, maybe.

Okay, back to Captain Douche Bag. Let me also say that the cute messages you or someone else writes on the inside of the door describing what has left your orfice, down to length and girth, are not pleasure reading. But thank you.

Anyway, by far THE WORST atrocity that has ever been committed was glamorously stumbled upon by moi the other day. I’d come from the gym and had been playing tennis for 45 minutes or so…about half-way through our game, but my stupid little diuretic-filled bladder (without morning coffee, I am a zombie) could not offer me any more serves without threatening to explode (Ha. Like on Friends, when Chandler is waiting to use the restroom and is standing outside a closed door when Gunther, also needing to use the bathroom, comes up and asks if there’s someone in there. Chandler sarcastically replies, “No. This is just a daredevil game I play to see how long I can go before I BURST and DIE.”). So I ran to my car to get tissue (remember d-bag #1) and then took a deep inhalation before locking myself in the outhouse.

Naturally, there was no toilet paper on the roll (hip hip hooray for bringing my own), but there was a nicely folded section of TP beside the toilet (or more accurately, open hole with a seatcover). The toilet paper was folded OVER something that was reminiscent of the piles left in Jurassic Park by the dinosuars.I bet you can guess what it was.

There is NO WAY someone can ACCIDENTLY miss the toilet, okay??? That is unacceptable behavior, and Lord of Douche Bags, King Crapper, whoever you are, you deserve to be locked inside such a porta-potty, uprooted like timber, and thrown down a side of a mountain so that you can roll around in a pile of feces, of which yours–as you know–did not make their way inside the toilet.

Sincerely,

Jenny