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June 24, 2008

Let's Return Bathroom Stalls to Masturbation

Guest editorial by Kevin Jacoby,
Penn State University sophomore

One of the things I most hate about the modern world is the loss of traditional values, like how our politicians have all become crooked, or how families don't spend enough time together, or how some chick says she'll be a Facebook friend, but then she totally blows you off even though you listed her as "more than just a friend" and shit.

Or like how the johns at the Pattee Library are no longer a good place to spank your frank.

Take yesterday, for example. I'm in a stall on the fourth floor beating my meat like it's a piece of raw tenderloin when some fuckwad comes into the next stall. While I'm trying to dream about ramming Scarlett Johanssen in a schoolgirl outfit as she's bent over my mother's coffin, Dickweed in the next stall is all ruffling pages of his newspaper and shuffling his feet and shit.

Mission-fucking-impossible, I say.

Or the annoying idiot last week who interrupted my efforts to varnish my banister while shoving a freshly-scraped carrot up my ass. Dude sounded like he had the world's worst case of TB, hacking and wheezing and coughing up lung oysters and shit while I'm trying to blast 20 ccs worth of man-juice all over the toilet seat.

No can do, Pablo, and fuck you very much.

So, folks: either shit or git, as they say, 'cuz some of us are engaged in serious hand-to-gland combat, if you know what I mean. It's awfully tough to massage the purple-headed warrior if some asshole is talking on the celly while letting rip a nasty shart.

Bathrooms were made for one thing, mister, and that one thing is taking Little Johnny dancing down at Knuckle Junction, you dig?

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