The other day, I saw a Port-a-Potty on the side of the road; there wasn’t any rock concert or festival surrounding it; it was just an isolated Port-A-Potty, sort of a contemporary hermitage, if you will. I went up to the door, and it said “vacant,” so I ventured through the threshold. When I reached the other side, I was shocked and appalled to see an older-looking fellow perched up on the plastic throne, pants around his ankles, and the newest issue of U.S. News in his hand. He looked at me and shouted, “Hey you! What the heck are you doin’ in the John with me? Cantcha see I’m busy with my pers’nal bidness?” As I stuttered around an answer, he continued, “Never no mind that, is there anything I can help ye with? Any questions about life? Girls? The caloric content on certain aspartame-addled diet sodas?” Trying to be courteous as well as seize this opportunity for complimentary advice, I asked, “How come oven temperatures vary in higher altitudes?”
He stared at me blankly, until finally he said, “Get the hell out of my office.”