I'm on a very long bus ride from Copenhagen to London. It started around midnight, it's 10am now, and we won't arrive until sometime this evening. Most of the band and crew guys decided to fly, but I, as the captain, cannot leave my ship (the tour bus). Pussies.
I really need to poop. This is a problem because they still don't make tour buses that you can poop on. Unless you're a really big act, like Bob Dylan. He can probably poop on his bus. But for now, I cannot. Oh, thank God, we're stopping at a truck stop. Apparently we are somewhere in France.
I'm wearing my pyjama bottoms, a big parka the promoter gave me in Germany, and my boots. Looks pretty stupid. Whatever. Fuck, are you kidding me? I have to pay to poop? There's a little old lady sitting at a table taking money before you can pass into the restroom. I don't have any... what currency do I need today? Euros? I don't have any currency on me. Rock stars are never supposed to carry their own money. Not sure why.
I have to go back to the bus, parked about 200 metres away, and ask for some poop money. This is ridiculous. If you knew how badly I have to poop right now... Let's just say that we had Indian food last night, and something didn't sit right.
Tour manager ('The Colonel') has given me some euros. I gladly pay the little old lady 50 euro cents and go to the men's room. No! The door is locked. I look to the little old lady with a pained expression. She tells me to go into the ladies' room. I say, 'Really?' She says, 'Really.' The ladies' room is fantastically clean. I now feel like it was a stroke of luck that the men's room was occupied. Back on the bus, the captain takes his seat on the upper suicide lounge deck. I toast my cup of coffee to The Colonial: onward. Let's get this ship where it's going...
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