Porta Potty Quotes

Leo grabbed the neasrest thing he could find- a Porta-Potty seat- and threw it at the face. Leve me alone!

There was another time when Mike was really foul mood and we had to make a pit stop so he could use a porta potty. Mike went to use the porta potty and we were waiting inside the RV. It was joe’s idea, but we all got out and started to rock the thing back and forth. We didn’t mean to, but we ended up tipping the porta potty over while Mike was in it! Then we attacked him with air freshener

Jason wasn't sure what to expect at the end--a dungeon, a mad scientist’s lab, or maybe a sewer reservoir where all Porta-Potty sludge ends up, forming an evil toilet face large enough to swallow the world.

Seeing America by bus is like touring the Louvre in a Porta Potti.

On a scale of one to ten, I'd say you rate a one. If the Porta-Potties are ten.

The truth is, you can’t build a skyscraper-sized vision on fixer-upper faith, and you won’t experience mansion-sized miracles with porta-potty principles.

This writing thing, it ain’t like that hip hop shit, City. For li’l niggas like you,” he told me, “this writing thing is like a gotdamn porta potty. It’s one li’l nigga at a time, shitting in the toilet, funking up the little space he get. And you shit a regular shit or a classic shit. Either way,” he said. “City, you gotta shit classic, then get your black ass on off the pot.” He actually grabbed my hand. “You probably think I’m hyping you just for the money. It ain’t just about the money. It’s really not. It’s about doing whatever it takes for you to have your voice heard. So I don’t know what you’re writing in that book you always carrying around, but it better be classic because you ain’t gonna get no two times to get it right, you hear me?

Zits,” I said. “Z-I-T-S. Actually, I don’t think you even need electric bolts. You could just breathe on us.” I looked him in the eyes and smiled. “Seriously, dude, when was the last time you brushed your teeth?” “Shut up!” “No, really. Did you eat a diaper?” “Shut up!” he shouted. He squinted. “Do you know how much I enjoyed guarding your mother? I shocked her at least a dozen times just to watch her squeal.” “Yeah, well you could have just sat next to her and let her smell you. That would have been much worse. I’ve had hamsters with better hygiene.” “Enough! Don’t think I won’t electrocute you, Vey!” Taylor looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “It’s his Tourette’s, he can’t help it.” “I’m scared, Zits,” I said. “You know Hatch would have your head if you did. But here’s my promise: after I’m in charge, my first command is to make you my shoeshine boy. You’ll be following me around with a towel.” “You’ll never be in charge.” “No, that’s what Hatch said. You heard him. He wants my power. I’m not kidding, Zits. When Hatch was trying to get me to join you guys, he promised me that you would be my servant.” Zeus looked at me with a worried expression. After a moment he shouted, “Shut up! And stop calling me Zits!” “I don’t think I will. In fact, it’s going to be the first rule I make. I’m going to have everyone else call you that.” “I don’t care what Hatch says. I’m gonna fry you, Vey.” “Oooh, now I’m really shaking. You don’t have enough juice in you to light a flashlight.” “Michael!” Taylor shouted. “Stop it. He’s got a temper. I’ve seen it.” “You should listen to the cheerleader, Vey.” He stepped toward me. “You think you’re so cool. But you can’t shoot electricity like me, can you? You’re just a flesh-covered battery.” “And you’re a flesh-covered outhouse. You should tie a couple hundred of those car air fresheners around your neck.” “Last warning!” Zeus shouted. “I’m not kidding, Zits. There are porta-potties with better aromas. Would a little deodorant kill you? What was the last year you took a bath?

The making of disability justice lives in the realm of thinking and talking and knowledge making, in art and sky. But it also lives in how to rent an accessible porta potty for an accessible-except-the-bathroom event space, how to mix coconut oil and aloe to make a fragrance-free hair lotion that works for curly and kinky BIPOC hair, how to learn to care for each other when everyone is sick, tired, crazy, and brilliant. And neither is possible without the other.

No sooner had the door slammed shut behind him than Grievous Bodily Harm rammed into it. The bull hit the cubicle with the force of an oncoming truck. The Porta-Potty rocked backward and then toppled. From inside came the sound of a large amount of human waste sloshing out of the holding tank, followed by a scream of abject horror and disgust from Morton.

The place stank like someone had butchered a rotting cow in a Porta Potti. The

porta potties are an invention made from Hades’ ass-crack.

How do you go to the bathroom?” asked Denny. Kathy Townsend blushed. “Denny, what a question!” Mr. Jones laughed. “That’s okay,” he said. “Shows she’s thinking.” Then he winked at Denny and whispered, “Ghosts don’t go to the bathroom.” Denny felt a tiny prickle run up her back; then she saw that her mother was laughing. “I’m serious,” she said. “How?” “See for yourself,” said Mr. Jones. He directed her into the forecabin and pointed toward a narrow door with a half-moon on it. Denny opened it. Inside, on the floor, was a little Porta Potti like the ones campers use. When Denny came back out, Mr. Jones was still talking to her mother. “I’ll need a new head, of course, before I put the boat in the water,” he was saying, “but this one will do for now.” Denny stared at him and gulped. “A new head?” she repeated. Mr. Jones laughed. “Don’t look at me like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he said. “A head is what you call a toilet on board ship.” “Oh,” said Denny, laughing at herself.

School didn’t learn us shit anymore. It was all pap. They didn’t want to teach us about slavery or about how we killed the Indians or any of that. They barely covered the Holocaust. I mean, were you not aware that the state of education in this supposedly great nation of ours had gone into the toilet? And not like, a good toilet. We’re talking plunged deep in a porta-potty. A well-loved porta-potty, if you know what I mean.” “Shana—” “I mean it’s full of chemical diarrhea.

And she knew that there was no coming back from this. Now, she would forever be known to Jonah as the girl wrestling a pig in the porta-potty.

Me: In college, I was clipping my toenails and ended up having to wear an eye patch for a month. Mr. Wrong Number: Disgusting, but impressive. #2? Me: I once got stuck in a tipped-over porta-potty. Mr. Wrong Number: Good Lord. Me: Music festival, strong winds. The thing blew over, door side down. I still have nightmares. Mr. Wrong Number: I want to move on to #3, but I have to know how long you were trapped. Me: Twenty minutes but it felt like days. My drunk friends lifted it enough for me to squeeze through the door crack. Mr. Wrong Number: I’m assuming you were . . . Me: Absolutely covered in waste. Mr. Wrong Number: I just threw up a little in my mouth. Me: As you should. And just to add a cherry to the top of your entertainment sundae, the story ends in me being doused with gallons of high-powered water that were dispensed by a fire hose. Mr. Wrong Number: Wow. You definitely can’t top #2. Me: Oh, you ignorant little fool. #2 is but a warm-up. Mr. Wrong Number: Well give me #3, then. I thought about it for a minute. I mean, there were hundreds of embarrassing bad luck moments I could’ve shared with him.

Ever the efficiency expert, Phil had a knack for turning my empty bottles of Snapple Mango Madness into his personal porta-potties on our road trips. I'd get all fiery, but then I'd realize the hilarity of it all. My once Mango Madness was transformed into Golden Madness.

Nationally, 85 percent of oil industry jobs are held by men, and most women in the field work as engineers, administrators, medical personnel, or on cleaning staffs. Oil companies tout this as gender diversity in their press releases, but women hold fewer than 2 percent of the jobs beyond those positions. The gender inequality in the field has made nearby Williston—the only population hub for over 100 miles—look like a seething all-male metropolis complete with strip clubs, greasy burger joints, Coors Light chugging contests, bar fights, and seatless Porta Potties on oil rig locations

Porta-Potty Tip: Breathe through your mouth. AND DON’T LOOK DOWN.