Oregon Tavern Age: Lawn Chair

An OTA man sat at a high table in a Coos Bay OTA joint and told a story to three OTA men and one OTA woman who were sitting with him. They were all drinking cheap and tasteless American lagers.

I sat ten feet away at a table under a stuffed and snarling bobcat, drinking an Oregon ale, and thinking about writing a letter.

The story went something like this: the OTA man had a favorite and ancient webbed lawn chair that was so threadbare in the seat that most of it was shredded and barely supported the man’s weight. It was only a matter of time before collapse.

Until then however, the man liked taking a shit through the hole in the chair when he was too drunk to get up and use the restroom inside the house. He just pulled down his pants and underwear, plopped out a dump, and then pulled his pants and underwear right back up. He didn’t have move all that much and could do it while drinking. Once sobered up, he’d head into the house and wipe his ass if he got around to it.

After hearing this story, his friends exploded into laughter and profane congratulations.

I must assure readers that I never make up anything when it comes to eavesdropping on and later writing up stories in OTA country. There is no need.

Could this lawn chair story possibly be true?

I believed every word of it. Would anyone make up something so practical, improbable, degenerate, absurd and utterly irony-free?

No.