Let me start by saying, I love Riot Fest. I had an incredible time there this year and will certainly be in attendance next year. But there are just some experiences that need to be shared, good or bad, to keep you informed of the fan experience regardless of the event.
As me and my buddy were heading to see Spitalfield at the Rebel Stage, I said let’s hit the bathroom before we grab beers and find a spot. The port-a-potties in this area are great because they generally have short lines. And this was the case, pretty short lines and I picked one I thought would be a winner. As I am next in line, the wait feels a bit long and my shitey-sense starts to perk up. But hey, I chose this line, let’s stick it out. A gentleman exists shortly thereafter and I step foot into the arena. It was not good folks, the smell hit me like Wilber Marshall killing Joe Ferguson.
And what do you not do in this situation? The same as climbing a mountain, don’t look down. But I did, and there it lay, a turd the size of John Holmes’s crank with the red clay coloring of a national park in Utah. As I stood turned toward the urinal trying to hold my breath for as long as possible, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a question and not an odor: Why was that sitting on top? You would think it would be covered by toilet paper, but it was not. Quick assessment of the situation let me know there was toilet paper available. What kind of scene had I stumbled upon? Why did it take so long if there wasn’t even wiping involved? I mean, I understand that pushing a loaf of french bread out of a human butt-hole might take some time, but if you’re not handling the second part of the task, it shoulda been quicker.
It took me half the set and a full beer to get back to reality. In the end, I was left with more questions than answers, but I just hope that dude is ok.
About The Author
Section 108 Row 13, Bassist for Barren Plains, Acclaimed drunkard