Cold as shit?
I’m not sure what coldness units are used to measure the breasts of female practitioners of the black arts, but whatever that unit is, it is definitely colder than a witch’s tit here in Wisconsin. It hasn’t been too snowy in the last few weeks, but there has been about 85 inches of snow this winter, which is a record. Holy shit, that’s a lot of snow.
Wednesday, I went out with my sister and her fiance, and had some surprisingly decent Mexican food and a few margaritas. The discussion was interesting, as usual, and the snow was falling lightly outside. After leaving there, I went back to the Great Dane brewpub, which is next to the hotel, as it was the birthday of one of my colleagues. More beers and great discussions were had here.
So the next morning bright and early, before the sun had even crested the building and kissed the Bucky® port-o-shitters with its warm and gentle rays, I had to go. I felt some rumblings at the hotel, but we have to be at the jobsite at 7:00, and it was getting late. Now normally we don’t use these port-o-shitters, because they’re…well…sort of gross and shitty. Today though, it couldn’t be helped. By the time I got inside the trailer and dropped off my computer, I was squeezing so hard that I was practically inward talking.
What’s worse is that the walk to Bucky® is half tundra due to the glacial state of this heat-forsaken time of year. I’m quite sure that had I fallen, I’d have shat myself quite completely. As it was, I had a little pressure relief fart walk going, that almost became ugly.
I made it to the Bucky® triplets and the one on the right was free. OMFG, if it weren’t…*shudder*. As I quickly dropped trou in anticipation for the near catastrophic crisis that had just been averted, I was also on a primal level aware that it was really fucking cold in this little shithouse. Oh. Sitting and doing my thing was all at once a study in the simultaneous dichotomy of heaven and hell-frozen over.
The rate of heat transfer between your ass and thighs and a 10-degree plastic toilet seat is really something. Needless to say, I did my business and got the fuck out of there as quickly as I could. If there is one thing that I cannot abide on my tombstone, it’s: “Died of hypothermia on a Bucky® shitberg”.
It was hard to stand up when I was done though, as my hip joints were nearly frozen right through. Curse you, Sconi winter, curse you.
On the plus side, 35 or so minutes later when I could feel my ass again, it turns out that I did not, in fact, leave a layer of skin on the toilet seat. I hadn’t been sure before.