Poo Poo and Sex Sex

So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2. Not the number 1. Number 1 is wee wee. Just like how the number one starts with a "w" sound. Wwww-one. Wwwww-ee wee. But not that. Well, that's not entirely true. A little bit of 1. A little bit of 2. Thankfully no 3. Here's a way to remember this numeric code in case I reference these numbers again. 1 - wee wee (think of the w sound.) 2 - rhymes with poo (number 2 is poo). 3 - squish.

So I'm at a gas station, using the potty, you know, the old number 2 (see legend above). I take a gander (goose) at the stall wall. I read a few of the entries, you know, the correct phone number to dial in case I feel led to have a good time. There were some racial threats on there (I was in Mississippi). There was some dirt on some poor girl named Amelia. And a whole bulk of sexual profanity I will spare you of.

Which leads me to a question - In such a disgusting context, why is the first thing the graffiti (spelling?) artist usually thinks of is sex and the escapades thereof? Nasty, revolting, pee-drenched, half-flushed, mustard-stained-toilet-bowl, fecal-fuming bathrooms do not begin evoking desires to think of, much less document, my sexual fantasies and/or invitations. I just don't get it. It's like carving the words "Who wants some vinegar?" at an oil plant. Plain and simple. It just doesn't make sense.

On the subject of bathrooms, I happened to be in Atlanta this past week and found myself dining at The Varsity, which if you don't know, is a famous old, fast-food like diner joint. The place is huge and old, spread out with like 30 cash registers with each one being manned by a black woman shouting "what'll ya have?" This is a glorified fast food place. Burgers, hotdogs, cokes, shakes, bla bla bla. This is not the point of my entry.

The point is that I went into the bathroom, again with the need to effectually accomplish a number 2 (see legend above). There was only one problem though. The stalls had no doors. There were two walls, sure, but no door. Which, if you think about it, is really the most important part of the bathroom stall. The door. But there were none. And my little situation was not going away anytime soon. So there I find myself, sitting there with my pants around my ankles, out there and exposed for the perpetually revolving incomers to see. I might as well been sitting there in the middle of the room with no walls around me. I have never squeezed and wrenched so hard to speed up the process. Had I used the bathroom after my disgustingly, greasy, deep fried double cheeseburger with french fries, the whole thing would have taken about 4 seconds. But it would have been a much louder exodus.

I think I was in too big of a hurry because I didn't even take note of the nearby engraved sexual invitations and the relevant phone numbers to dial were I to be so inclined. Good thing I wrote down that number from the Mississippi gas station, were I to find myself interesting in needing a "good time."