I recently had the opportunity to be downwind from a kid who was emptying a Porta Potty using a long hose and something like a shop vacuum. What a nightmare. I don't really like to think about what happens in an outhouse after I pull up my pants and take pulls off the Purell dispenser. Maybe the festival moves on, the bathrooms are uprooted, and Lilac bushes crop up in a U-shaped border, nourished by the beer concentrate urine and nacho waste from thousands of revelers.
There is construction being done on a house in our neighborhood. It's a serious project requiring a single-stall unit in the front yard. I like the luxury of having an outhouse close by. It says to me: You are safe. If there is an emergency, you can squat here.
It's like carrying a Clif bar in your purse or hoarding tampons in the glove compartment.
Anyway, we live in the kind of neighborhood where juvenile pranks lack structure or meaning. They are seemingly random acts of chaos, which is in most ways preferable to premeditated acts of destruction. So at some point in the past 50-some hours, a bunch of kids must have taken the Biffy and thrown shoulders into the plastic walls until it gave, tilting, crashing, and I'd imagine sloshing.
Inside, upended, its contents broke over the lip of the seat and spent the weekend solidifying, baking to walls.
It's standing again today. I'd hate to be the pioneer who first opened that thing.