The GOP Convention & The Atomic Shitter

 

Back in my Navy days I was part of a mobile land based special intelligence outfit. It’s not necessary for you to know our mission, this isn’t about that.

This is about the toilet.

The toilet was something called an Incinolet which is a portmanteau of the words “incinerator” and “toilet.”

And yes, it’s just as horrible as it sounds.

We usually just called it “the atomic shitter.”

The atomic shitter was a stainless steel monstrosity, a contraption of bowl, clamshell doors, shit collectors, ash pans, fans, blowers, vents, and various high voltage assemblies that you didn’t want to think about while pissing on them — in fact, you were advised NOT to piss on them because the supposed safety systems that kept you from being electrocuted through your urinary organs might or might not have been built by the government contractor who came in with the lowest bid by cutting corners on safety systems.

The Incinolet was supposed be safe, effective, self-contained and was allegedly designed to turn human waste into sanitary ash without the need for tanks and chemicals.

Basically the way this hideous throne was supposed to work was that you put a little paper bag in the bowl (yes, that’s right, grab a bag, open it and put into the space where everybody else has been taking an MRE fueled dump, pat, pat, and don’t worry, that’s not even the most disgusting part of this evolution). Then you sat down and did your business, plop plop kaPLOOEY! (and if you’ve ever lived on a steady diet of bad coffee, beef jerky, and MREs for a couple of weeks you’ll understand the KaPLOOEY part. The rest of you won’t and good on you, let’s just say you might need a couple of those little paper sacks and damned good sphincter control during the swap out). Now, understand, there’s no water. There’s no airflow. There’s just you and a giant bag of steamers under your ass and the smell is beyond belief and a few inches away, on the other side of a flimsy and anything but sound-proof partition there are four people eating and beyond them are bunks with six more people trying to sleep and they can all, each and every one, hear and smell everything you’re doing in detail. And being sailors they’re not above critiquing your technique and cheering your delivery. You’re welcome.

When you’ve filled the bag, you STAND UP (this is very, very important). You clean up, dispose of your paper in the bowl. Zip up. Close the lid (this is very important) and step back as far as the tiny compartment will allow (this is very important) and push the foot pedal.

And the load in the bowl, in a safe and sanitary manner, drops though the clamshell into the incinerator compartment …

Ha ha, no, that’s not right. No typically what happens is FLAMES OF BURNING SHITBAGS SHOOT UP FROM HELL AND IF YOU WERE SITTING ON THE SEAT THEY’D LIGHT YOUR CROTCH HAIR ON FIRE AND COAT YOU IN THE STENCH OF BURNING SHIT. So good thing you stood up first. The bag jams halfway down and begins to burn, you frantically pump the pedal, but the pan below is full from the last guy because the fucking REMFs who designed the goddamned thing never visualized the 14 grown people eating MREs and living inside this greasy machine would have to shit pretty much constantly and the SMELL IS SO GODDAMNED BAD PIGS WOULD DIE PUKING THEIR GUTS OUT just get away from it. And now you’ve done it. The load was supposed to be quietly burned but the machine is jammed and fans wouldn’t pull and the heating elements won’t heat and there you are with a pan of hot bubbling liquid MRE shit ON FIRE and you have to pull it out and carry it through the living quarters which are the size of a closet packed with four people trying to eat and six people trying to sleep and down the connector into the other compartment where more people are sleeping and you’d better hurry up because THEY ALL HAVE TO SHIT TOO while trailing smoke and flames from the burning shit bucket that’s now so fucking hot that your hands are melting off and finally outside where you …

Well, anyway, that’s what I thought of watching the first day of the Republican National Convention.

About Jim Wright 46 Articles
Jim Wright is a retired US Navy Chief Warrant Officer and freelance writer. He lives in Alaska where he watches American politics in a perpetual state of amused disgust. He's been called the Tool of Satan, but he prefers to think of himself as the Devil's Designated Driver. He is the mind behind Stonekettle Station. You can email him at jim@stonekettle.com. You can follow him on Twitter @stonekettle, or you can join the boisterous bunch he hosts on Facebook at Facebook/Stonekettle. Remember to bring brownies and mind the white cat, he bites. Hard.