Saturday, May 15, 2021

Shakespeare in the Shitter

I'm a connoisseur of men's room graffiti. One of the best parts of going out, really. That cryptic, inside ridicule that only comes from drunken lack of censorship. The grammatically incorrect hubris over the reader's phallic inferiority. And most of all, a calling out of all our moms.

I especially love the dialogues unfolded over months and years, each contribution in a new font, like a pre-internet chat thread on who's doing what to whom (and their mom). Everything so concise due to pressures of time and smell. Obnoxious, hurried haikus.

Does any of this happen in the women's room?

You can gauge the level of a place by its patrons' messaging. I'd much rather hang out in the joint featuring “Mary Poopins,” “The Logfather,” and “Forrest Dump” than the one stating, “Seth rulez and wuz here.” (I've heard some really nice places don't even have anything scribbled on the walls.)

People want to express themselves and, given a venue, they will. Now that we've all got one in the palm of our hand, I miss the days when you had to venture out to a restaurant, bar, or club and then answer nature's call to happen upon the random tabloid musings of anonymous America, akin to finding a coin on the beach.

With so many walls on which to incessantly post, the virtual world has turned that beach coin to hot sand in our shoe and sent the quality of our collective discourse straight down your grandmother’s moldy butt crack.

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