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Tweetcasting a Trip to the Port-a-Potty at Ultra Music Festival 2011

One of the quintessential Ultra Music Festival experiences that rarely gets any press is the average attendee's trip to the port-a-potty.



Well, I was waiting in line last night at 10:14 p.m. trying not to piss my pants and thought, "Somebody's gotta document it. Why not me?" But whipping out my iPhone and typing out a Tweet, I couldn't get a signal. Still, for my own scatological amusement, I wrote it all out.



So apologies for the delay ... But these are the Tweets you would have read in real time via @crossfade_sfl if 3G service didn't suck at Ultra.


10:14 p.m. Never thought I would willingly document a trip to the port-a-potty at a major music fest. And yet here we are ... Ultra 2011, tweetcasting.



10:14 p.m. Queues are short. But they're totally disorganized. Does the DMT-addled mind lose its ability to understand the concept of a straight line?



10:14 p.m. Forget straight lines ... Are these stoners gonna be able to hold their shit in?



10:14 p.m. Way too many people hitting the port-a-potties in pairs.



10:14 p.m. The good-slash-sad news: They're out superquick. Let's hope they're doing drugs. And not making love. 'Cause 60 seconds is always too short.



10:14 p.m. I haven't seen anyone deal with incontinence the way I suggested in Crossfade's Ultra Survival Kit, i.e. crapping in a plastic bag.



10:14 p.m. One solution we actually have witnessed ... Pissing between the portable toilets. But, um, could this possibly work with number two?



10:14 p.m. Man, if you think one shitter stinks ...



10:14 p.m. Go hang out in a shantytown of shithouses with thousands of sweaty people who may or may not have just dropped a nugget in their drawers.



10:14 p.m. Whew ... Finally inside one of these things. Surprisingly, it stinks worse outside.



10:14 p.m. BTW, the Carl Cox Arena's bass is rattling this cage so much I feel as though I'm gonna get eaten by a T-Rex like that guy in Jurassic Park.



10:14 p.m. It's so dark I can't even see where I'm pointing my junk.



10:36 p.m. Relief!


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S. Pajot