Here’s a question, and it’s just a question: what is the fascination with tagging bathroom stalls? I’m assuming that this is more or less relegated to the men’s room as all of the women’s restrooms I’ve been in didn’t have, “If you want to fuck, leave your number.” dug angrily into the stall wall with keys, or emblazoned on the toilet paper dispenser with indelible marker.

I get the drawings. Men, when you boil it down, are really nothing more than 10 year olds in ill-fitting skin suits; so the idea of drawing a *giggle* PENIS entering a *snicker snicker* VAGINA is high comedy for us.

I get the poems, too, as that’s just artistic expression and a way for an artist to get his work out into the world:

Here I sit all broken hearted,
I shit,
I pissed,
I came,
I farted,
Ahh…

RalphWaldoEmmersonsayswhat?

It’s the names I don’t get. The tags. Why, oh WHY, would you want your name in the stall of a men’s room?

“Dude, you know the LAX Delta Terminal? The bathroom near gate A30, third stall from the right… I am THERE mother-f’er!”

…