In the sh*tter

Recently, my husband and I drove from Colorado to Texas. Somewhere in New Mexico, we stopped for gas, and I went into the portapotty where I encountered something concerning drawn on the wall: a tiny swastika. Now, I know what you’re going to say – art is a subjective experience, and criticism only exists to serve the audience, not the artist, blah blah blah! – but I have some notes.

First off, portapotty doodler, be honest. Was this your first swastika? Because it kind of seemed like you weren’t really committed. Like you were trying Nazism on for size, taking it out for a spin. I mean, just look at your lines. They’re all insecure, soft and squishy, which I can only imagine is a reflection of the artist’s own physical form.

I get it, right angles are hard. It’s like one line plus another line, but then you gotta know which way the lines are going, because one way means hate crime and the other way means peace or something, and you definitely don’t want people to confuse your weak graffiti with an accidental display of tolerance. And the miniaturization of your artwork (trust me, I’m using that term incredibly loosely) is causing me to hear your intended “Heil!” in a cute pipsqueak voice inside my head, like if Alvin and the Chipmunks were shockingly radicalized. Seriously, art is all about confidence, and that shy little swastika of yours was nervously occupying maybe less than one square inch of space.

I’ll concede there was some tough competition in that plastic bathroom. The “Texas Water” scribbled above the urinal? Hilarious. The giant, gushing weiner with balls of a medically concerning size scrawled across half the entire door? Unmissable. How are you supposed to compete with something so in-your-face? It’s the definition of unapologetically taking up space! And yeah, the proportions and line-work of a bathroom stall penis don’t matter as much as they do with a swastika, but come on. If you’re gonna go big with the fascism, go big!

On top of the size of your piece, I also have some qualms with the medium. You chose to do this doodle with a ballpoint pen, which, pause for a second – who brings a pen with them into a portapotty? And where were you keeping it while your pants were down? In a breast pocket? Clenched between your teeth? Regardless, Bics are to bathroom doodlers what Play-dough would be to Michelangelo: the tools of an unserious artist.

You know what would have been a better choice? A Sharpie! Now there’s a writing utensil for people who actually mean it! The boldness! The permanence! Guess who uses Sharpies for everything? Trump. I get a feeling he might be a bit of a hero of yours, portapotty swastika doodler, but maybe you want to take a page from his book the next time you’re pooping and feeling simultaneously inclined to express yourself.

Part of me has to wonder if you really meant it because you didn’t even dig the pen into the plastic. It seemed as if someone could erase your feeble attempt to chafe against society with one good thumb rub. Not my thumb, of course! Unlike you, I don’t have a habit of going around touching portapotty walls, you sick animal.

You know what’s another way you and I are different, portapotty swastika doodler? I’ve never defaced a public bathroom before. Not even when I was in middle school. I dunno why. Maybe it’s because I thought my ideas were worthy of being published in a more intellectual forum. Maybe it’s because my mom loved me and a toilet stall wasn’t the only place where I felt like I had a captive audience.

Portapotty swastika doodler, did you, perhaps, arrive at this gas station in a Cybertruck? I only ask because I recently read an article where they surveyed Cybertruck owners about why they bought such an embarrassing-looking excuse for a vehicle, and the majority of respondents said they got the car because they believed it would be a conversation starter. People would finally have a reason to talk to them. Is that you, portapotty swastika doodler? Do you wish someone would talk to you? Is your hate-doodle just a cry for attention? A tiny scream into the portable toilet void?

Gosh, portapotty swastika doodler, now I’m contemplating the immensity of your loneliness. The vast chasm that obviously exists between you and the rest of humanity. My thighs are burning as I hover over the toilet seat, imaging how small and sad your life must be, even smaller and sadder than your itty bitty baby swastika, which, as we established was poorly drawn, but 

Ah, crap! This portapotty’s out of toilet paper.