Back of the Door Cabinet

Posted: March 20, 2013

In: Household ➠ Bathroom

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It's a Back of the Door Cabinet. Seven words, and my work is done.

What? What else do you need to know? Back of the Door Cabinet means cabinet that attaches to the back of a door. One that expertly optimizes otherwise unused space. That affixes to the door's existing hinges, without introducing those irritating over-the-top hooks that prevent the door from properly closing. Cabinets come in half-length and full-length. That's it. That's all I got.

Well, except for a story about Thor and a Porta Potty. It's a story my friend Victor told me. Victor's got some good stories. First, do you know where the largest St. Patrick's Day celebration in the US takes place?

Savannah, Georgia.

No shit. It's an event for which they cordon off a 20-block radius and activate a special drinking ordinance and haul out hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of Porta Potties. So one year Victor was at the Savannah St. Paddy's celebration standing in an endless line to use one of the john boxes. It was hot, people were drunk, and waiting 40 minutes to take a leak was kind of cramping the otherwise festive atmosphere. At least until some hulking dude--6'5", flowing blonde hair, a real live intoxicated Thor--decided his doppelganger status exempted him from the wait. He busted through the line, swearing, shoving people aside, heathenly muscling his way into the first open toilet.

Now I reside in the Pacific Northwest, where this behavior would be received as follows:

Crickets. Crickets.

Maybe a few dropped jaws, maybe some under-the-breath mutterings, but retaliation? Any form of action whatsoever? No. No way. I live in the Land of Inaction. Thor would fare well here.

Too bad for him he was in Georgia. Where, en masse, those awaiting their fair turn charged his Porta Potty and leveled it. From vertical to horizontal, sky to ground, excretory system castoffs in the hole to...yeah, you know...in seconds.

Thor crawled out with an empty bladder and a face full of the piss and shit of who knows how many mid-March revelers.

Lesson: Norse gods, don't fuck with the patron saint of Ireland in the American South.

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