In less than 10 days, a total solar eclipse will take place. The anticipated tourism boost has some U.S. towns freaking out. The biggest issue seems to be whether or not they’ll have enough Port-A-Potties.
If you haven’t heard, it has been 99 years since the last total solar eclipse and 7.4 million geeky armchair astrologers are stoked.
You won’t find me anywhere near big crowds at the path of totality. I went to a Nascar race once. When it was over, I tried to stumble to my car with 300,000 other drunk people. It was hell on earth.
Each one of these people are planning to drag their family to the path of totality. Like flies flocking to a stinky fresh turd, they will witness the moon blocking the sun for 2 minutes — then clap and get in their car to go home.
With the frightful lack of Port-A-Potties at these eclipse boom-towns, scientists are predicting the worst case of country-side defecation the U.S. has seen since the Civil War.
I try to be understanding of people; we’re all on different journeys. But once in a while we just come across an absolute numbnuts. Let me tell you about a guy named Dave, whose logic puzzled me.
I commuted with Dave and some guys at the beginning of college. On Monday morning of Dave’s first week to drive, he introduced us to his car: “The Beast.” The same thought crossed all of our minds: we might die today.
The Beast was old; older than all of us. It had faded maroon paint and quite a bit of rust. Realizing we just needed to get to school, we piled into The Beast — assuming everything was in perfect operational order — and were on our way.
We were your typical teenagers, so I took a nap. At some point, my slumber was ROCKED by someone screaming: “Joe! Wake Up! Get out of the car!”
It took me a second to shake my grogginess and figure out what happened. Panic set in when I realized The Beast died on us — in a tollbooth. I hussled out of the car and helped push. Dave steered us to the shoulder.
Exhausted from our efforts and freaking out, I thought: what in the hell are we going to do now?
Keen to our distress, Dave tried to calm us down: “DON’T WORRY GUYS!”
He popped the hood, retrieved a battery and cables from the trunk, hooked them up, and jump-started The Beast. I never thought I would be so elated to hear that shitty old engine sputtering away.
We all looked at each other — like we just witnessed a miracle. Dave proceeded to put the good battery back in the trunk. We piled into the Beast and were on our way.
The burning question in my mind was … why in the hell isn’t the “good battery” installed under the hood? It may not come as a surprise, but Dave did not graduate.