Gonna be honest, I enjoy reading the vandalism in bathroom stalls. I mean when the hell else do you have that much entertainment while peeing?
Well, unless you consider watching a toddler remove the contents of a bathroom vanity entertaining. If that’s entertaining, I get entertained daily. But I find it more annoying than entertaining.
And there’s always a lovely variety of little bathroom memos, depending on where you are, of course. Dive bars and music halls always provide some super riveting stuff involving penises and who loves whom (I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself with the “whom” thing) and all that nasty dirty stuff. My favorites though are the I’m-hammered-and-weepy-because-I-just-found-my-boyfriend-kissing-some-slut-so-now-I’m-going-to-write-horrible-things-about-him vandalism. You know, like “Johnny Smitherman gets it on with farm animals.” And then his phone number.
At my college, there’s like cultured vandalism. You know, English majors getting all deep and shit, quoting Whitman and whatnot: “And your very flesh shall be a great poem.”
I’m sure old Walt is elated. “I sound my barbaric yawp over the pissers of the world.”
And the Jesus people. “Jesus loves you.” I always want to write back “Jesus wants you to stop defacing other people’s property you fucking dumbass.”
But I don’t.
Actually, there are all kinds of things I’d like to tell the general, young, female idiot population in bars and music halls [how do I know they’re idiots, you ask? Because they’re writing in bathroom stalls]. You know, I’d like to just write a few words of wisdom and little tidbits of awesome.
I wish I wouldn’t say things like “little tidbits of awesome.” I mean shit. Not only is it meaningless, but I sound like a geeky old person when saying it.
Oh well. The cool ship sailed a Long.Time.Ago, as I have demonstrated for you folks on more than one occasion.
Anyway, here are a few things I’d write on a bathroom stall, were I the type of person to write on bathroom stalls:
- Ladies, someday you will stop being so competitive with each other, because you will realize other women are not the problem. MEN are the fucking problem.
- Oh come ON, admit it. You love it when Cyndi Lauper comes on the radio. You also love “Born in the U.S.A.” by Springsteen. So stop trying to be so cool.
- Speaking of cool, that hipster guy you’re with? Yeah, he’s totally boning your best friend.
- No, honey. No. He is never going to leave his wife for you.
- You think you’re hiding it, but we all know how drunk you are. And we think you’re an idiot. And no, you can’t dance. You are not smooth. Not smooth at all. You do not have moves like Jagger.
- Even when you’re doing that super-slinky I’m so hot don’t you wanna nail me dance? Yeah, it’s still bad and we still think you’re an idiot.
- I realize you’re 21 years old and easily excited, but really sweetheart, there’s no need to squeal EVERY SINGLE TIME you see your friend across the room or OMG THAT ONE SONG comes on.
- Less perfume. Less make-up. Less hair-flipping. Fewer fake tans. Fewer lower-back tattoos. Fewer walks of shame. Better world.
- This will suck tomorrow.
- Most importantly, if you flirt with my oddly attractive husband one more time because I’m older and less hot than you, my stretch marks and I will kick your teeth in. And then, I will write about it in the bathroom stall.
And with that, lil’ ladies at the bar, I bid you “goodnight!”
Haha. That was fun.