Recently, while traveling, I found myself in urgent need of a restroom. So I pulled into the next available, hot potty spot, a McDonald’s/Super-Mini-Mart/Gas station.

::Am I the only one bugged and/or confused by these odd little conglomerations? For some reason, I’m not comfortable with the housing of Big Macs with Special Sauce and Preparation-H and French Fries with ketchup and Playtex Tampons and napkins and straws, all under the same roof.::

I was quite pleased to see that the bathroom was very clean, and not smelling of cinnamon ass.

::Has anyone else noticed the recent Cinnamon bathroom spray revolution? People, cinnamon and shit make Cinnamon-ass. ugg.::

::Evidently, a cinnamon bear doesn't shit in the woods. But perhaps he should?::

::And, why do I keep writing stuff inside these little domino dots?::

I enter the stall, do my business, take care of the business-end of business, pull up my pants and turn to flush. No flush. It appears to be an automatic-for-the-people flush job thangy. Looks brand new, in fact. So I wait. And watch the bowl. Nothing.

Hmmm. This thing looks real high tech. Maybe it uses a cutting-edge, weight-differential system, which compares the weight of the bowl contents before, to the weight of the bowl contents after, the evacuating event. This way the flush brain knows how much whoosh to push. Yeah, that's it. Amazing.

I smile in admiration, as I watch and wait. For nothing.

Okay. I need to be somewhere. People are waiting. There must be an emergency flush.

No emergency flush.

Again, I wait and watch. Not even a bubble.

I then wave my hand in front of the “magic eye,” and stare into the pool. A slight shift in the toilet paper, offers a brief glimmer of hope. But no.

Perhaps my lift-off was too quick, or too slow. These magic eyes can be quite discerning, I hear.

So, with pants on, I sit down, count to 10, and stand back up, real slow.

Then I wait. And watch.

I repeat the above action, only this time, I count to 30. In Spanish. Which takes a long time, because I only know a little French. And almost no Spanish.

But, nada.

Hmmm…. It’s the jeans! The magic eye doesn’t respond to denim. It needs to see the real deal. The flesh of the ass.

So, swear to gawd, I pull down my pants, and once again, re-enact lift-off. And, as I slooowly remove my booty from the throne, I mutter, "Look at my ass, bitch. It's leaving the premises. Look. Ass. Flesh. Flush."

I felt it was my finest launch, to date. But no.

What the fuck? Now I panic. I need to get out of here, but no way in hell am I leaving shit, as is. I’ll die here, first. And neither am I going to the adolescent, multi-pierced, McDonalds/Super-Mini-Mart/Gas Station attendant for help. I’d just as soon pluck it from the bowl with my bare hands, and drop it in my purse.

Suddenly, I realize that I have been the butt of a huge, stankin,' adolescent prank. Come to think of it, there are no real adults on the premises. Maybe there is no magic eye flush. Maybe the "eye" is at the end of a giant peep hole, leading from the employee breakroom. The flush mechanism is activated manually, at the viewer's discretion. But only after everyone's had their way, with your ass.

Bending over a little, to catch my breath, I start to shake.

My ass.

For the camera.

Shake it fast.
Shake it slow.
Wave it to, and
Wave it fro.

And...

Whoosh. There it is.

Nearly crying with relief, I pull up my pants and unlatch the door. Thank God.

Then....Is that muffled giggling I hear?

Kewl.

Knittin' Knuggets
Outside of Father's Day festivities, I spent most of the getting tanked.



I better get the front finished, or I'll be giving a new meaning to "hangover." Have a Monday.