Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

May 13, 2014

Straight from the Ant’s Rants travel log comes the sordid tale of a man on a quest. He seeks no gold, no fame, no worldly wisdom. The only treasure sought along this road is the mighty Porcelain Throne. Enjoy the ride…

Road Journals: Excerpt I- The Toilet Pages

Hundreds of miles lay in my wake. The hours of cross country trekking were finally catching up with me. My gut was grumbling and my bodily functions were screaming for action. By the time I hit the backwoods of Georgia, my Hanes were in danger and my fountain was on the spritz. As much as I hated to push a nugget in the porcelain jungle of a public piss pen, it seemed a far better choice than inside my $30 American Eagles. Problem was, it was about three o’clock in the morning. Any clean and respectable establishment was closed until the AM. Technically, of course it WAS morning but not the time generally suited for bacon and eggs. This hour was ripe for hookers, cocaine and curious clergyman… possibly all as part of the same transaction.

I’d been fighting my inner needs for the better part of two hours and I knew I’d never make it until the cock cried. If my eyes weren’t already brown they sure would have been after the level of urgency rose as high it did. Let’s just say things can really back up on a guy driving for hours on end with nothing but Slim Jims for sustenance. Waiting any longer was just out of the question. I’d simply have to settle for less than ideal conditions. Sure, in a perfect world I would calmly place myself on a heated velvet toilette and gracefully let nature take its course but that seemed like a rather tall order that time of night. I mean, a scantily-clad French maid to mop my crack with a silken cloth would have been stellar but equally as difficult to obtain on such short notice. Especially, with the wages I was offering. Besides that, I hadn’t seen any kind of man-made structure in fifty miles. Anybody actually living in the woods I was driving through was bound to be a white-tail deer rapist. All I knew was that if I didn’t take care of business within the next few minutes, I’d have to renege on my personal oath to never again poop in the woods. Decades earlier, the Scouts taught me to wipe my ass with leaves, but not how to identify poison ivy when I see it. Needless to say, several youthful days were spent dripping ice cubes down nature’s valley for relief. A debilitating addiction to Calamine Lotion ensued. Eventually, I was weaned off the sauce with bacitracin and cold cream. Since then though, I’d held my vow to never drop my drawers in a non-tiled room. Miraculously, that promise would remain intact as the opportunity soon arose for me to complete the most fetid of bodily functions. Salvation stood alone in the middle of an otherwise uninhabited roadway and came in the form of a rundown gas and food-mart. I would later find that the gas came about an hour after eating the food.

My eyes saw the Gates of Heaven and its sign said Fuel. That building contained everything I needed to feel complete again; sugar, caffeine and most importantly Porcelain. Of course, the dirty deed was top priority and not to be delayed. I careened into the parking lot driving at highway speed with my foot dragging outside the door in anticipation like Fred Friggin’ Flintstone. I hobbled as fast as I could over to the store, swung the door open with full force tearing out the bottom hinge and knocking over a newspaper rack. Standing in the doorway amidst the broken glass, not a soul could I see. As if no other words or action were necessary, I barked out the lone word “Bathroom!” to the open air in the center of the store. Pause. Nothing. As I prepared to paint the place brown, a head slowly popped up over the counter from underneath a wrinkled newspaper. Without ever actually looking at me, the head’s owner mumbled, “outside” while holding out a key tied to a 2×4. I grabbed the pebble from his hand and left the temple posthaste. Outside again, my head spun around like Linda Blair on a coke binge, but I failed to see the bathroom anywhere. In fact, I found no doors at all other than the store entrance. I felt panic setting in as my underwear feared the worst. After circling the perimeter twice, I scratched my head and pondered aloud, “Where the fuck is the damned crapper?!”

Minutes later, something caught my eye at the far end of the rear parking lot. It was a tiny shed-sized building standing alone in the darkness. Surely, this must be the place for which I seek. Indeed it was. It was a cold, dark, and damp little shithole in the middle of nowhere. A thing of beauty, indeed. My chapel. My church. My saving grace. Tears of joy welled in my eyes as I waddled across the lot with my legs squeezed tight and my arms stretched before me like Herman Munster on his way to the parlor.

At first, the door seemed locked, stuck or rusted shut but with a few sharp kicks and a pulverizing head-butt it scraped open to reveal my soiled savior. Moments later, I remembered the key in my hand and decided to keep it as a souvenir. The only light inside came from the moonlight shining in through the vents in the roof. That luxury skylight was probably the only reason the smell in there wasn’t worse than it was. The sensation was gag-inducing. I cringed in Poe-ish horror as I imagined being entombed alive like Fortunato. That stony crypt could easily have become my final place of residence if I hadn’t used my emergency pocket shoe horn to prop the rusty door open. If it came to pass that I got trapped in there though, I’d be forced to live on toilet water and excrement until someone found my decaying remains still trying to claw their way out of that Walnut Grove hell-hut. All my mail could be forwarded to the rooftop air vent and dropped below. The thought was almost enough to initiate retreat, but at that point there was no way I could turn back without shitting to regret it. I’d come too far to walk away with funky undies.

Shunning the darkness and all its horrors, I unfastened the butt-flap in the back of my Michael Landon long-johns and mounted the porcelain pony for that joyous ride to Relief Town. Sure enough, pulling open the chute doors allowed ten years of life to return to my broken body replacing the buckets of junk food that just departed through the Southernmost exit. I unleashed weapons of ass-destruction never before thought possible. I slumped forward in post-orgasmic satisfaction unfazed by the fact that I hadn’t even covered the seat with anything protective. If I hadn’t been so pressed for time, I probably could have fashioned some type of sanitary wreath out of mud and twigs. Surely that would have blocked at least a few germs from getting in through the out door. Nevertheless, as I sat on that toilet in the Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M., I thought to myself, “I can’t believe I’m sitting on a toilet in a Georgia outhouse at 3:00 A.M.” As comfortable as that sticky ass-ring felt on my tired backside, I knew it was best not to rest there for too long. As dark as it was, there was just no telling what kind of matter might me festering beneath me. Besides, I would only get more tired if I rested there longer. Worse than that even, I would procure an unattractive oblong indentation around my posterior. Nope, not for me. It was best to buckle up and clean up… although not necessarily in that order.

As I stepped up to the basin, I encountered yet another unpleasantry. Not at all to my surprise, there wasn’t a single drop of water running in the little prison style sink with which I could wash my hands. Nothing but rust stains from the corroded faucet covered its chipped porcelain skin. The shadowed moonlight revealed what might have been a roll of paper towels lying in a rain puddle on the floor, but I couldn’t be sure. It could just as easily have been the slumped cadaver of some poor animal that got trapped inside while seeking shelter. Or perhaps, some drunk the night before stumbled in and missed the commode after bingeing on Captain Morgan and Cool Ranch. Too chancy. Just as my Aunt Jemima always told me, “Never touch unidentifiable objects in dark Southern outhouses without rubber gloves, tongs and a friend that works in the germ ward.” For lack of a better idea, I washed up by way of the ole’ Denim Dry Rinse Method. Thanks to dark jeans, nobody would ever know my dirty little secret, sans the smell. It was just me and the open road, anyway. With my intestines contracting back to normal, I split that concrete hellhole as quick as my rubber legs could carry me. Problem was I was still exhausted and now famished. I hadn’t eaten anything of consequence all day. Let’s just say the quality of snacks that went into me was similar to the way the snacks came out. I needed food. I was starting to feel as hungry as the Olsen twins look. In the middle of nowhere, I had no choice. Fuel.

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Top Ten Things I Probably Shouldn’t Have Said While Trying To Sell My House

April 26, 2012
  1. “Laminate floors are pretty resistant to blood and semen stains. You’ll never guess what happened in that corner over there.”
  2. “House is pre-wired for illegal cable. Oh, and the fart fans have industrial strength motors.”
  3. “The crack house next door is a waste of money, don’t bother. The neighborhood cops sell the really good shit.”
  4. “The woman screaming in the attic was locked up there to sweat the devil out of her. Just ignore her, she’ll fall asleep eventually.”
  5. “Oh, I leave those broken liquor bottles on the lawn just to discourage the neighbors from trespassing. They have no shoes.”
  6. “Any bodies buried in backyard has long since decomposed so you ain’t gotta worry about it reeking like Dahmer’s basement.”
  7. “The plumbing was designed to use the entire house as a bong when the toilet is dried out and  filled with weed.”
  8. “I cut sniper holes in the garage door to make it easy to pick off passers-by on the sidewalk.”
  9. “I always thought this would be a great location for an upstart prostitution ring;  lots of local talent ’round here, I gotta say…”
  10. “You know, this house was once occupied by a really nice handyman who only occasionally experienced psychotic episodes involving power tools and people’s faces.”

 


House Rules (And Things You Should Know Before Visiting)

December 6, 2010

Your safety is important here at Ant's Rants Central. For that reason, management suggests you party responsibly with a hard hat, safety goggles and knee pads in place.

  1. Please evacuate your bowels before entering my home. There is a port-a-potty at the construction site two blocks down, I’m sure you passed it on the way in. If nature calls while you’re here, at least use the amply supplied Courtesy Spray and turn on the Electric Fart Fan. Thank you.
  2. If you bring Schlitz to the party and I catch you drinking Guinness, you’re getting bounced.
  3. Nothing legal may be smoked under my roof.
  4. If you’re fortunate enough to be dining here, don’t ask to have your food prepared in a special way or to have certain ingredients left out. It’s all cooked the same for everyone. This ain’t a Diner and my name ain’t Mel. Allergic to something? Suck up a Benadryl or scratch your itchy ass. There’s a McDonalds next to the port-a-potty. Pick-up, Dingy!
  5. Don’t park on my lawn unless you plan on grading the soil and laying new sod in the morning.
  6. Yes, the dog bites but don’t worry, he’s never killed on purpose.
  7. Unless numerous cell phone conversations somehow pertain to your visit, please don’t use my home as a phone booth. You’re not as popular as you think you are and unless you’re a drug dealer or a bookie, your business should be conducted during normal working hours far the fuck away from my hearing range.
  8. Unless your next paycheck covers the cost of a leather sectional, I suggest you avoid my furniture while showing off how much wine you can drink on an empty stomach.
  9. If you’re here to party, don’t ask me to turn on the TV. Stay home if you want to lounge out, watch the game and scratch your balls with a turkey leg. Fact is, I really don’t care if  “your team” is playing. Besides, unless you own stock in a bunch of guys in tight pants with low IQs, they are not really “your team.” Trust me, they don’t care how YOU spend YOUR Sunday.
  10. Happy drunks are always welcome to party here. As for the others, I have a locking broom closet that doubles as a drunk tank. It holds enough oxygen to sustain you for 41 minutes. I suggest you settle down quickly.

Best Ideas of 2014… So Far

August 19, 2010
Best Ideas

The best laid plans of mice and men don’t mean dick when you’re yakking in the can and pelting your face with Advil and Tums.

  1. Exploding doormats to discourage solicitors
  2. Cuervo IV-Drip for uninterrupted inebriation
  3. New FCC regulations will now require that Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and Justin BibWearer make some type of useful contribution to society  before having their name published or broadcast publicly.
  4. Butt-Buzzers: Early warning ass-whistle inserted in the sphincter to signal the release of stealth-like flatulence
  5. Penis Colonies: Remote islands where pedophiles, child molesters and sexual offenders are dropped off by helicopter… without a parachute. Survivors utilize their unique social skills to interact with those that appreciate inappropriate erections.
  6. Body Odor Act of 2014: Mandatory daily showers enforced by law. If you can be smelled, you can be jailed.
  7. Crotch-Cam video feed for FaceBook
  8. Celebrity Death Hunt on RealityTV- regular people stalk the jungle fully armed with the intent of eradicating the world of celebrities they consider worthless and undeserving of fame. Baldwins beware!
  9. Scented underwear by Glade
  10. Sarah Palin VooDoo Doll/Inflatable Love Slave