I wrote about kintsugi once before, and how I thought kintsugi is sometimes used in a manner a wee bit off from my interpretation of the traditional Japanese intention, and well, I think this may be another good example LOL. Kintsugi toilet... Found in a local, non Japanese, restaurant... It sure made me laugh though. Does this toilet tank really seem more beautiful for having once been broken? I kinda think not, how about you?
Literally.
I never realized that saying was one that was so steeped in literal origins, but, apparently it is. Back in the spring while adventuring across the west desert we found what we thought was an odd case of bullet holes inside the Simpson Springs outhouse. Odd enough to me that I turned it into a creative writing contest, asking my friends to post their imagined scenarios of explanations for our odd find. And then last weekend... We were out exploring again. This time we headed east and stumbled upon the ghost town of Piedmont, Wyoming, an old railroad town based around charcoal kilns that supplied Salt Lake City and the Union Pacific Railroad trains. As ghost towns go, Piedmont was pretty cool. The kilns are preserved as historic landmark, and there are several old decaying buildings still in existance. Enought that you could wonder what the place was like back in the day. There was one small building made of rusted corregated steel, which I assumed was a shed unil walking around to the open side and discovering it was actually a four hole outhouse. Now there's a first... I've seen many two holers in my life, and often pondered "Why?" as in "Why would you want to go to the potty in pairs?", but a four holer really makes you wonder what three people in the world you like enough to want to defecate with. If that was not thought provoking enough, the building ws riddled with holes... bullet holes, which on close inspection we realized were not from it being a distant target, but from shots fired from inside the outhouse. Putting on our forensic science thinking caps and examining the curvature of the metal 'Exit Wound" we realized that the bullets were shot from inside the outhouse, most likely from the proximity of the four holers.
Now once again I have to ask the question, who shoots bullets from inside an outhouse???? What is the scenario this time? Four fellows, after a few beers and a can of beans,taking a dump, one of the guys lets her rip... flatulence that is. Another of the three fellows can't stand the smell and decides to ventilate the room using his handy side arm? Gives new meaning the the expression "Shooting the shit!" doesn't it? And here are some photos of the rest of the ghost town and historic charcoal kilns of Piedmont, WY...
Every campground need somemores right?
And not at the campground, but elsewhere in town... we found goats.. in doghouses... how adorable!
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Sera: Okay, so I'm not sure you're ready for the real story of the bullet holes, but I'm gonna tell you. It starts, where any good story does: chili. Yup, it was the May Fair Annual Chili Cook-off competition, and people from all around the states were dragging their Dutch ovens (the ones filled with actual, chili, rather than the ones their kids would be doing later in their beds and giggling as their little brothers suffocated in the hellacious overwhelming methane attack; that's a whole other kettle of fish), sure that they would all have the blue ribbon first place winner. See, the May Fair Annual Chili Cook-off (MFACCO to the participants and spectators and judges alike), was The competition to kick off the summer. The chili was the going to be graded and evaluated on 6 different criteria: Heat (oooh yeah, spiccccceeeeaaay!) Flavour (are you bringing the heat but no taste?! CERSEI SHAME!!) Scent (does it make you salivate or scowl?) Ingredients used (be creative, wow the judges!) Presentation (did you serve it in a clean boot this year?) And finally, the After Burn (do they need to stick their head in a trough?) The rules of the final round were simple: No more than 10 ingredients, each chosen by another competitor, and all 10must be utilised in some way. Three hours to perfect their new chili for the judges, and they were led, blindfolded, to their workstations. On the countdown of 3-2-1-go! They were off, groaning and growling at their fellow competitors, as they raced around to try to make due with the chocolate syrup or egg shells or orange flavoured protein powder. They boiled. Reduced. They ground and pulverised. They blended and tasted. And tasted. And tasted. "10...9...8..." The head judge yelled. He was a burly man, strikingly magnificent in his formidable stature, as a deep baritone voice echoed through the workstations and bandstands alike without needing aid of a microphone or bullhorn. The judges took bites, some repulsed, others mere timid links, trying desperately to hope that what the competition had created was not repugnant, but rather palatable. The bowls, two nearly full still, one with a portion eaten from, and the last bowl for each was cleaned. One judge, forgetting their couth in the frenzy of the moment, kicked her bowl clean, unabashedly smiling to the crowd as they roared with laughter at her youthful antics. There was no need to deliberate for the blue ribbon holder this year. The crowd cheered as Pippers LaBells came confidently striding onto the platform beside the announcement podium, receiving her first (of many) blue ribbons for her ingenious use of butter, chocolate syrup, rosemary, red kidney beans, ghost peppers, pimento pieces, capers, peppered steak, raspberry jam, and sweet mixed pickles. And then a noise, sounding like a scream rented the air, just as Pippers was waving for a publicity shot. Someone had stolen the huge pot of chili she made!!! Everyone tried to race after the chili thief, but he jumped in his truck and raced away, yelling "Yippee! More chili for me!" Sadly, the after-after burn didn't kick in until the thief fair-goer was well sufficiently away from the fairgrounds, had found a rest area to stop in hours before, and ate his fill of the chili; nearly quarter of the huge pot. About four hours into his escape, he had his first stomach lurch. Oh. Boy. He pulled over, and checked his map. If he floored it, he might just make the rest area 20miles up ahead. Pulled in, and it was closed. Boy, howdy did yell at the clouds for that bit of unfortunate luck. Back on the road, his stomach was betraying him something fierce, and he openly regretted stealing the mini vat of chili, let alone eating so much of it. He saw a construction site just off the highway, near a turn off. It had what could have been the most glorious thing he'd ever seen before:a porta potty. But his grandpappy had always said snakes and gators were waiting in the hole, so always take your gun with you. He parked next to the door, barely able to stumble out of his truck, trying to undo his pants fast enough. Oh sweet blessed relief. That porta potty was unlocked. But he could hear scratching. Maybe it was his brain, delirious and needing to just get the basic need taken care of. Even still, he heeded the voice of is grandpappy and has his gun at the ready for any critters who might wanna bite his bum or other bits. Safety off, he spun his body around, and barely touched his back side to the hard plastic seat when the volcano began to erupt, sweat pouring down his face in buckets. The smell was worse than anything his older brother could have ever done when he was little. Every time he thought he was done, a new run of hell would pour from him, and in his fear he might be soon losing an internal organ because he had never heard of anyone sitting this long, a forceful gas blast surprised him, and he pulled the trigger of his gun several times without realising what he was even doing. He survived, and when he was fully recovered, he sent Pippers LaBells an apology note, begging her forgiveness, and telling her he had definitely learned his lesson. Moral of the story: don't be shitty and steal. |
| Dawn: He could hear it. Sckritch-scratch. Tiny claws on the metal door. He fell backward in terror, the jolt causing his finger to pull the trigger in a wild shot by the handle. Way to high. It will be low. "Steady" he moans, and tries for the tenth time to get his eyes to focus through the adrenalline, and the drink. Sckritch-scratch, flikkity, sckritch, and the first needle thin nails ghost thru the door. He fires everything he has, and can't stop dry firing as the creature flows thru the solid metal. There is nowhere left to run. |
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Frank: It was a beautiful, sunny day as Buford, who was out hunting rabbits with his buddies, stepped into the restroom to relieve himself of the 12 pack he'd drunk so far. He stood there wobbling and staring into the water in the bowl and started giggling as he tried to write his name with the stream. He decided he'd finish off with a flair and he leaned a bit to get a swirl on his d and fell back, peeing on the toes of his boots and the surrounding floor. He waddled backwards to keep his pants, which were around his ankles, from getting soaked, leaned over to pull them up and smacked his forehead on the toilet bowl, sending him to the floor, and the puddle of piddle, in a daze. He sat there pondering his next move for a minute, stood and pulled up his wet pants, fastened them and reached for the door and gave it a pull. Nothing. It didn't budge. He yanked and yanked and it still didn't give an inch. He figured his buddies had to be holding it as a prank and yelled out for them to knock it off but got nothing in return but silence. He grabbed the handle again, yanking violently and it still stood steadfast. He started to panic, yelling for his buddies as he turned in circles in the tiny room. No response. He suddenly remembered that they had all headed out and he was the only one who had stayed behind to plink a few more bunnies. He desperately looked around while patting his hips in search of some sort of tool that might help him dismantle the door and there it was. His trusty 357. He'd had his baby since he saw Dirty Harry in the seventies and surely it would be the answer to all his woes. He pulled it from the holster, took a wobbly aim at the knob and pulled the trigger. The bullet missed the knob striking the door and began ricocheting around the small room until it struck Buford in the back of the head. As he fell forward, his head hit the handle, the door swung outward and he fell face first into the dirt outside. It was a beautiful sunny day... |
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Beth:
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool aluminum door of the bathroom stall. Shuttering, she tried to still her sobs. Did he see her run into here? Was it safe? Covering her mouth she worked to stifle any sound. A itch on her arm had her brushing away at it impatiently. Feeling wetness she glanced down at her hand. Blood shimmered in the faint moonlight. The road rash that ripped down her left side was oozing blood steadily. It shouldn't have surprised her so much after crawling out of the broken windshield of her flipped Jetta. If she closed her eyes she could still see the headlights of the evil black pickup roaring up behind her on the desolate road. The crumble of the car as the pickup slammed into her side and flipping her off the road. His maniacal grin as she scrambled out of the wreckage and ran to the abandoned tourist trap bathroom. [i] How did he find me? [/i] A gunshot rang out in the night. "Jenna, you murdering bitch! There's no where to run now. It's Over." It's over. He said that years ago. How could this have happened. They were so young and so much in love. She could still remember his nervous excitement when he asked her out to prom. It was the same expression he wore when he asked her to marry him 2 years later. They were happy. Then she got pregnant. He was beyond ecstatic, and she was terrified. She told him she wasn't sure she was ready to be a mother and he brushed off her worries with indifference bordering on irritation. Hurt at his disregard for her feelings she withdrew from him slowly. Then when the second trimester tests came back the doctor told her there were worrying signs that all was not well. Soon after she started spotting. Loosing the child was the last straw for the man who once loved her and turn sour. He turned against her saying she had gotten rid of his child because she didn't want to be with him. Or perhaps she was cheating on him and didn't want to be tied to him with a child. The accusations got wilder and more abusive till she had to flee from him out of fear. He had changed so much. If only he had given her a chance to talk. If only he had found out WHY she was afraid of the pregnancy. If only they hadn't been so young and stupid. A shot rattled the aluminium door and Jenna jumped back from it. More shots hit but did not much but dent the metal. The fear twisted in her gut into a feeling she knew very well. She held her head up to the moonlight filtering thru the frosted glass of the skylight. Her stomach cramped and she dropped to her hands and knees as He continued to shoot at the door. Sooner or later he would make it thru. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her hands into fists. If only he had asked her why. She was going to tell him before they got married, but the pregnancy had happened before she was ready. Her hair tumbled down her back and over her arms and legs. He had changed so much, but he had no idea how much she changed. She didn't want this to happen. She had loved him once. She had ran from him out of fear, but not of HER life. A snarl curled over her face. She had loved him once and hadn't want to hurt HIM. The door flung inward as he kicked it open. Holding up his gun he hesitated at the two red glowing eyes staring at him. The change of woman to wolf is hard on the fetus. Werewolf women typically miscarry in the 2nd or 3rd trimester. Jenna uncurled her claws and lept for the man she once loved and proved unworthy of her affection. If only he had asked her why. |
Other silly bathroom trivia... don't look for paper towels, as you will not find them. Don't expect to find hot water, or heat in the bathroom. And the electric hand driers? More often than not they blow for about a microsecond, I don't know how anyone dries their hands. They might not care if your hands get dry, but they must want you to flush, as many bathroom have really big toilet flush buttons mounted on the walls. And then there was our favorite... the pink toilet paper we found in several public bathrooms!!!
