Oh What a Feeling!
By all accounts, and on the authority of many respectable citizens, yours truly is a natural-born coward. Yes, ostensibly I travel, chicken feathered, yellow streaked, and shivering, through life, ducking from doorway to covered bunker, hoping to avoid the worst of the sniper fire. I shan't deny it, that would be both lying to myself and more importantly, to you, my faithful readers. I'll admit, I'm most definantly a coward, but I am not afraid of everything, just some things, some really scary things.
Port-a-potties. That would be one of the things that terrify me. Why just the thought of having to relieve myself in what basically constitutes a casket sized igloo cooler is sheer terror. Perhaps the actual fright generating portion of the event for me is the knowledge that I could eventually become the victim of a cruel practical joke involving a port-a-potty, a rope, and several drunken teenagers bent on tipping it over. As a result, I have developed some techniques that I employ when using outdoor toilet facilities that I would like to pass along. First, the approach. Begin by looking carefully around the immediate vicinity, to ascertain if anyone under the age of 30 or over the age of 7 is close by. If so, hold it, or you'll be sorry! If the coast is clear, look carefully around the exterior of the port-a-potty; if there are wires or fuses leading up to the device, do not enter. Port-a-potties are never electrified, as they operate on the gravity principle only, therefore wiring is not necessary, and fuses (on the other hand) should be self-explanatory. If all these factors have been met, proceed on, but only if it's apparent that the last person to have used it was not suffering from any type of intestinal discomfort or communicable disease.
Public swimming pools. My God the horror! Port-a-potties can't even hold a candle to public pools. I have never been to a public pool where I knew more than two or three of the people there, usually the two or three people that I came to the pool with originally. I feel that my distrust of public pools is entirely justified, and once I've explained my reasoning, I believe you'll agree. It's most easily expressed in one simple word: Butt-water (I know it's technically two words, but the hyphen kinda sorts it out). Butt-water, I can't even think of it without shuddering. That one word, is what keeps me out of pools, hot-tubs, whirlpools, and even the lake. The thought of dozens, maybe even hundreds of unwashed, or semi-unwashed hineys stewing away in that chlorinated soup makes me sick. It's the reason I take showers instead of baths, and that's my own hiney. If you don't believe me, go to the pool, watch for a little while, and wait until some brave soul takes a dive from the high board and comes up from underneath the water. Looks like Moby Dick don't he? Spewing, and spraying water everywhere, as if it were "fresh from a mountain spring". Well it ain't, and no amount of chlorine can change that fact. Butts are right there, right there in that water, soaking away. That's not to mention, that the average child has a bladder capacity of 6 ounces, and has most likely just consumed a 20 ounce soda.
Finally, amusement parks. I know that part of the attraction of the attractions is that they're designed to be exciting, even scary. The problem that I have with them has nothing to do with the scare designed into the ride, it has to do with the scare I perceive as integral to all things mechanical. I have, since I was just a young pup, been involved in the manufacture and implementation of mechanical devices. I have seen all manner of invention and device fail, and I have broken every kind of bolt, screw, and bracket ever built. There is no type of machine made that cannot, or will not, eventually fail (and applying Murphy's law here), always at the worst possible time. For me, the worst possible time would be while I am riding it. Roller coasters are obviously built to make you scream, this is supposed to be a sensation. However, familiarity with how a roller coaster is mechanically attached to its track gives me even more reason to scream, and not in that pleasant, temporary, sort of way. Additionally, scramblers are built to spin in eccentric circles until the rider pukes, well they make me wanna puke, but not because of the ride, because they're only attached by a handful of 20 year old bolts, rusty, cheap bolts. But without a doubt, the ride that scares me the most, the ride I wouldn't get on at gunpoint, is the swings. The next time you decide to ride these death traps, climb these stairways to heaven, take a moment to look skyward. I direct your attention to the top of the ride, the place where the chains that hold the seat terminate. I think if you'll look carefully, you'll notice that there's a plate there, a plate where all the chains meet. This "plate", is connected to that spinning drum with a single universal joint. That's right, just one. In turn the universal is held in place with a single large nut. One really big, really old, really rusty, really tired nut. They're preparing to propel your body at 60 mph, held aloft by one hex-nut. That my friends is a slingshot waiting to happen, so don't come crying to me when you land in the parking lot. Course, when your hip bones are up around your earlobes, crying may not be an option.
I hope I've explained my fears in such a way that all of you understand my reservations, and might even see fit to tolerate my eccentricities. I would hope you already do, but I've been afraid to ask.
Fotno
