The Great Port-a-Potty Caper of 1974
Once upon a time, in February 1974, there was a bored 11 year old named Bobby Ray...
Okay, it took talking to my cousin Donna tonight to bring this memory back, but once it resurfaced, it all came back to me. To those out there who've always wondered how long I've had my sense of humor, well, I think it was innate.
You see, my maternal grandparents, Elmer and Grace Cox, decided it might be fun to take me to the Daytona 500. I admit that I come from a family of speed freaks. Ask any cop who patrolled the streets of the Brookview area of Jacksonville back in the 1970's, and they'd have said that the Coxes and their kin were a bunch of high speed demons. And they were right.
Except me; I was always "special". Yes, I loved race cars, but not NASCAR. For me, it was Formula 1. I also liked faster things, like jet aircraft, rockets and the starship Enterprise. NASCAR just looked like a bunch of street cars painted all pretty. After a day of being down there for the speed trials, I grew b-o-r-e-d.
Early on, after my grandparents had selected their parking spot. I noticed that there were signs pointing to the restrooms located in roughly a grid-like pattern. As I was strolling through the campgrounds, I decided to try and lift one of the signs. It didn't even take that much effort; it came right up out of the ground. That's when I had a brainstorm.
Let's do the math here for a moment. You have the following elements in this formula -
1 eleven year old with a high IQ
1 bored eleven year old with a high IQ
1 bored eleven year old with a brainstorm and a high IQ
= a lot of trouble.
The signs were arranged roughly in a grid and all pointed towards the restrooms. Hmmm...
It took around an hour, but soon folks who were in desperate need of the Port-a-Potties soon found themselves wandering in circles. Well, that wasn't the original plan. I was busted while working on the culmination of my dastardly deed, and took off like a shot. My plan was for the poor, befuddled, beer ladened denizens of the campground to slowly spiral inwards. Alas, 'twas not to be.
Still, thanks to my cousin Donna, I remember sitting in the back of that RV and hearing the cursing and complaining as many poor souls looked in vain for that blue booth of relief. Ah, the wondrous days of my youth.
Okay, it took talking to my cousin Donna tonight to bring this memory back, but once it resurfaced, it all came back to me. To those out there who've always wondered how long I've had my sense of humor, well, I think it was innate.
You see, my maternal grandparents, Elmer and Grace Cox, decided it might be fun to take me to the Daytona 500. I admit that I come from a family of speed freaks. Ask any cop who patrolled the streets of the Brookview area of Jacksonville back in the 1970's, and they'd have said that the Coxes and their kin were a bunch of high speed demons. And they were right.
Except me; I was always "special". Yes, I loved race cars, but not NASCAR. For me, it was Formula 1. I also liked faster things, like jet aircraft, rockets and the starship Enterprise. NASCAR just looked like a bunch of street cars painted all pretty. After a day of being down there for the speed trials, I grew b-o-r-e-d.
Early on, after my grandparents had selected their parking spot. I noticed that there were signs pointing to the restrooms located in roughly a grid-like pattern. As I was strolling through the campgrounds, I decided to try and lift one of the signs. It didn't even take that much effort; it came right up out of the ground. That's when I had a brainstorm.
Let's do the math here for a moment. You have the following elements in this formula -
1 eleven year old with a high IQ
1 bored eleven year old with a high IQ
1 bored eleven year old with a brainstorm and a high IQ
= a lot of trouble.
The signs were arranged roughly in a grid and all pointed towards the restrooms. Hmmm...
It took around an hour, but soon folks who were in desperate need of the Port-a-Potties soon found themselves wandering in circles. Well, that wasn't the original plan. I was busted while working on the culmination of my dastardly deed, and took off like a shot. My plan was for the poor, befuddled, beer ladened denizens of the campground to slowly spiral inwards. Alas, 'twas not to be.
Still, thanks to my cousin Donna, I remember sitting in the back of that RV and hearing the cursing and complaining as many poor souls looked in vain for that blue booth of relief. Ah, the wondrous days of my youth.
posted by Robert at 7:45 PM
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