Anyhoo, back in the marriage days, we used to do a lot of camping. My ex loves to camp and is one of those people that used to spend his weekends as a teen out in the bush with only a small tarp, a knife and a can of pork and beans. Personally I think this was less camping and more an exercise in pretending to be homeless and I never did understand how sleeping on the ground with only a rock for a pillow was supposed to be anyone’s idea of fun. I had never camped in my life until I met him because my parents idea of camping was staying at a hotel that didn’t offer room service, so you can see why this sounded more like self-subjected torture than a hella good time.
I did start camping and was shocked to discover I liked it. Ok, not all of it…I really hate sleeping in a tent but thankfully that’s why campers and RVs were invented. My ex and I came to a compromise and started borrowing his parents camper to go camping after we had our son and even he grudgingly admitted that changing diapers or trying to get a 3 year old to have a nap was FAR easier in a camper. Not to mention the fridge was handy in that it kept all the beer cold instead of having to make a daily trip to the store for more ice.
When we camped with the camper we had a rule that the toilet was for #1 only…this ensured the sewage tank would not get full after 4 days and save us from living with that subtle but lingering Eau De Poo smell, which was inevitable no matter how many chemicals got dumped down the toilet. Which left us three options for dropping a log: use the campground-provided outhouses, squat behind a tree and fervently hope you are not hunkered down in a patch of poison oak or hold it until you get home.
Paranoia dictated I go with option #3.
I don’t care how well maintained an outhouse is (and the majority at the campgrounds we went to were), the fact is you are squatting over an open pit full of fuck knows how many other people’s bodily waste, in a tiny airless shack and you are breathing in microscopic particles OF OTHER PEOPLE’S SHIT. Not to mention those outhouse pits are deep…my imagination goes into overdrive thinking about what could potentially be living in that shit pit…mutant rats, giant snakes, machete-wielding serial killers…YOU JUST DON’T KNOW AND NO FUCKING WAY AM I FINDING OUT. So needless to say there were many camping trips that ended with me arriving home and practically weeping in appreciation over my clean and non-smelly flush-toilet followed by a bowel evacuation so epic I could almost hear my toilet whimpering in fear and awe.
There may be no record of anyone getting stabbed in the ass by some shit-covered psycho lurking in an outhouse pit, but I am NOT going to be the first reported victim.