You Can Count on Them Spiders
To clear out the Porta Potty biter flies
Clyde:
Flies are just gravy to a Portable Potty wrangler. Good business fills those reservoirs and that makes the flies and me chortle. Them green bottles are happy little fellows but the folks Do Not like horseflies. Big, mean as Jesus on a bender and real biters. They will suck a cow dry and kick the husk in a ditch.
Mow the grass, get rid of garbage and dog poop, that will usually keep the big biters away. But one time I had to set up next to a whole herd of dairy cattle. Next thing I knew the pots were crawling with horseflies.
Zephyrus:
Here I am all forlorn at this child’s soccer game INTP an aesthete who dwells amidst brambles, beset by artistic vision. A poet cloaked in the doldrums of daily life. “See me,” I whisper but they see not. Beset by cows, how to achieve clarity?
You ask me to eat, no my meat is the stuff of revelation. You say drink but the melody is my only mead. But alas my puny flesh needs pass-out fluid from my nethers. All I see are these purple potties. O grim creatures of the night do you not know I have PORTOPHOBIA. These are the plastic chambers of damnation rife with unclean spirits.
Clyde:
Wow them pots are buzzing beats the band! Must be fifty horseflies in each one. Folks are gonna be pissed as plums! Good thing I brought my secret weapon.
Zephyrus:
I will move in a pentagonal path and keen a cry to Ussen the Apache spirit to cleanse the plastic coffins before I enter. My spirit companion whispers I must choose the first one on the left for the left is the favored hoof of the unicorn.
My fears rise. Be brave Zephyrus for that is the name of my restless husk. That buzzing means Ussen names my choice fortuitous. I enter and embrace my fears as the darkness consumes me.
Clyde:
Takes some time to gather a whole bucket. Boy a pail full puts a load on my shoulder. Hee Hee, good thing my pitching career is as dead gone as my loving career.
Yep, I will start with the first pot on the left. Open the top vent and dump in ‘bout two hundred of those garden spiders big as your hand. They love to ‘et up them horseflies. What to dickens is that sound? Like a jacked-up moose.
The purple potty spun on its axis then capsized releasing a cannonade of feces and an irate young man in a now brown toga, who swam toward the attendant and repeatedly thrashed him with a votive holder of essential oils. There were no charges.
“Let them just be as they is,” said the Judge.
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