Local Crackpot Lobbies For Unisex Restrooms

owing to take his crusade all the way to the Michigan Militia if necessary, local crackpot Abenheimer Sludd announced his plans today for a countrywide switch to unisex restrooms in all public buildings. Lavatory reformers from all points along the political spectrum were galvanized by Sludd's proposal, and his lighted trousers which flashed in sequence, apparently powered by a large car battery strapped to his hip.

"The time has come for America to lead the Europeans out of the dark ages of puritanical shithouse politics," said Sludd, wiping his brow with a rubber snake.

"In an age where your neighbor in the next stall over could be..." Sludd paused as a crow worked its way out of his coat pocket and flew away. "Anyone from Maryann Manson to Hillary Rodman Clinton, it's time to let arbitrary distinctions such as 'sex' fall by the wayside. The uncounted abundance of different sexual orientations making themselves known in society today, in addition to the unprecedented fashion sense of our young people, makes it nearly impossible for restroom segregation to fulfill its intended purpose!"

Sludd grabbed his leg like a machine gun and farted before continuing.

"In the days of our four fathers, one could be reasonably sure that the gent standing at the next urinal over wasn't contemplating asking you out on a date while casting a sly glance at your Ben Johnson. Or that the 'lass' in the next stall down wouldn't mosey on in and take a drippey-doo standing up! We live in some baffling times, and it's time to acknowledge this in the area by which any civilization is judged, its water closets. It's time to tell the world that America knows what's up! Therefore I propose simple, unisex restrooms uniformly placed across the land. Restroom construction, which hampered America's growth in the last fiscal year and caused much of the deficit, will be cut in half.

"Now I'm no restroom architect, not by far. Or at least the state licensing board doesn't think so. But I don't see how we could go wrong with a classic restroom design consisting of a simple round trough in the middle of the room, where everybody can just get it all out in the open and say 'This is who I am! Live with it!' I'd even go so far as to say this might solve some of our greater social ills, you never can tell. Vote Gypsy!" Sludd shouted as a finale, before climbing onto a tricycle with an enormous front wheel and very slowly and unsteadily riding away.

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Well damn on Spam, Shorty, you never told me you was a artist! Yessir, that is one fine likeness you done skedoodled on the back of that there matchbook. Who you said that is, Cher? Who? Blinky the Pirate? Can't say as I ever hearda him, Shorty, but I'm sure it's a damn fine likeness. Kinda looks like Cher a bit, don't he?

That sure is one marvel to see there, Shorty. Dang. We ain't had no honest to Amos artist round these parts since I was knee-high to a horsefly. You remember Noodle McDougal, Shorty? Might've been afore your time, seeing as I is an always has been two months your senior. Yessir, Noodle was a artist like the kind they don't make everyday. He could draw a road apple an you'd think it was right there in your lap. He drew up a Mayberry pie one time so real that Oleanna Cardip done swole up her whole throat and near died, seein as she's allergic to Mayberries an all. Dang if that boy couldn't draw.

One time he challenged old Homer Bonetree to a drawin' contest. Now you remember Homer, Shorty, he talked a good game but he weren't good for much but fallin' out the back of a pickup truck on his weddin' day. Come to think of it, Homer Bonetree were dang near a fallin' machine. I'd say if there ever was a fallin' genius, it was Homer. He was famous in three counties for fallin' down a well that was already boarded up, and for the time he managed a way to fall out of a hole he'd dug in the ground. He might've even ended up on TV one day if it weren't for him fallin' out that skymascraper window when he was on that tour in the big city.

Anywhat, Homer got to talkin' bout how he was the drawinest fool in town and how he could draw pictures of flies just as good as a McEnroy could draw flies for reals. And after a while Noodles MacDougal'd had about enough of Homer's braggety Andy routine, so he went an challenged Homer to a drawin' contest. So they sat themselves down in front o' Beulah Crankle's old Ford and set about each o' them drawin' a picture of it, tryin to do one better than what the other was drawin'. As that afternoon done slip away a crowd gathered all around to watch them draw, sittin' there lookin' as serious as two monkeys on a orange crate.

Judge Farkbarn elected himself to be the judge of they contest, seein as how his name was Judge an that seemed good enough to qualify him for the job. And so when the nighttime fell like Homer Bonetree out o' a rowboat, and it worked it's way around to bein' too dark to draw no more, Judge called that it was time an had both Noodles and Homer turn in they drawins.

An what he had there was for certain a sight to see, I tell you Shorty. For Noodles had gone an drew up a Ford so real you think you coulda climbed right in an drove it into town, 'cepting for it's miniature size an the fact of Buela Crankle's real Ford hadn't moved a modest foot in over twelve years. But dang if that wasn't the drawin' to beat all, Shorty.

So naturally the crowd what was there was eager to see what Homer done drew for hisself, an so they all looked at his drawin'. Some stared right hard, others turning it this way an that, upside an whatnot, before they one an all decided Homer couldn't draw a lick to save the baby Jesus' life. Homer's drawin' looked like a box with a stick stuck out of it, 'cept the box was crooked an all the lines was wavy.

Judge Farkbarn spoke out that Noodles was the unanimate winner, an that Homer drew like a big retard with hooks for hands. Everybody in town had themselves a good laugh about that, an Homer got all huffed up an climbed up a tree, then fell out an walked home.

From that day on, Shorty, weren't no person who didn't know Noodles MacDougal what was the finest artist in these parts. Even when he got older an got into his consexual arts, like paintin' pigs green or settin' a big stack o' tires on fire an callin' it art, he was still one sight to see. An you know what, Shorty? I may never myself have understood him tyin' all those possums together into a ball or walkin' around all nekkid with but a gas can on his head, but that's what made him the artist, Shorty. Kinda like you.

Say, Shorty, is that there Pirate all you can draw? Lessie what else you got. A turtle? You bet your canned ham I'd like to see a turtle. Dang, Shorty. You're one regular Vincent Monroe.

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Dear commune:

You boys is ate up. I read your shit all the time 'cause I know it's know or be knowed in this universe. You know?

My favorite parts is the music reviews where you tell it like it is. Whitney Houston ain't released a good album since before the motorcycle accident in '66. She can still rock okay, but she'll never top her glory days of the Synchronicity Tour. Fuckin A.

I have a problem with your shit, though. Where's the horoscopes? I think there should be horoscopes. If there's one thing I hate it's having no one to blame for my shitty life.

Well, I gotta go. The warden's calling lights out. That guy's a big prick. He says he knows nothin bout all the raping but he's right there watching it. Man, do you get raped in prison.

Speaking of which, here comes Big Henry Brown. I'll see you later. Keep writin and I'll keep reading! Damn!

R.P. McDaniels
Scales, AL

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Dear commune:

I just don't feel like this is going to work out. I'm sorry to break it to you like this, but I knew if I give myself the chance to back out I'd take it. Because there's still something there. But I can't let that get in the way, I know it's over. I need to make a clean break.

It's not you. You're great. It's me. I'm the kind of person who needs structure. The kind I need is the kind you can't provide. But I can't ask you to change-that wouldn't be fair to you. And all those things that are the problem now are what made me love you in the first place.

I can't tell you any more, I'm starting to tear up. Don't try to contact me, it'll make things harder. If you need to, give all my CDs and clothes to Rick. I'll be staying at his place.

Don't ever change. You'll always be the one I left.

Love,

Vicki Koslowski


Dear Vicki:

We should note to you that the commune is a website. We aim to provide the finest source of alternative news and counter-culture points of view, as well as topical commentary of unpopular opinions. This is not the first time this mistake has been made by readers; we seek to help make this distinction clearer in the future.

We also wish to add: You're afraid of commitment. Don't bullshit us. It isn't us, no fuck, we know that. We treat you like a queen and it's never good enough. Fuck this insane bullshit. You're afraid to be loved. You won't let us get close. Your dad left your mother and she left her next two husbands. It's the only kind of love you know. You need to trust someone and believe they love you. But that isn't going to be us. We can't wait all our lives for you to "decide" we're good for you. We hope you find that love, but not with us, sister.

We can't pretend not to be hurt. You're goddamn right it's painful. We loved you like you'll never fucking know. We're trying to be nice about it, but there is some part of us that hopes you'll fucking choke to death.

the commune

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Dear commune:

The jackals of society are feasting upon our souls right now. The commercialization of each and every individual at the hands of the corporate phantoms is not a vicious torture like electric current applied to the genitals. It is in fact the slow bleeding of society's humanity, a stealing of essence so subtle as to be hardly noticeable. But I notice. And I react.

It is my mission to reveal the horrible robbery of our spirit as a nation to the hypnotized masses. I've tried in the past to inform the public of this nightmare, but they are distracted by the Baywatches and Urkels of the world. The airwaves are filled with tripe meant to keep them occupied and not notice the hands in their pockets and the fangs in their arteries. So I'm afraid I must resort to more violent means.

Intelligent information doesn't hold attention alone. Nor do heartfelt please; so now I am forced to grab attention through violence.

I will continue to present my manifestos to such outlets as the commune, that are truly hard-up for news and filler space that letters can provide. If the commune refuses to print any further chapters in my manifesto, I will thoroughly BEAT UP A HOBO for every week my manifesto is unread. I do not seek to cause pain. I do not like violence. It is my only outlet in a world controlled by power brokers and corporate monsters.

Nor do I hate hobos. I feel they are the scuzzy bloodline of America. But my ends will justify these means. I mean to return America to its glory days. Also, hobos are much easier to find unarmed and asleep, making for easy victims. I am not a large man. Again, nothing personal, hobos.

Heed my warning, America! Your hobos are at stake!

The Hobobeater

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Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for the content of letters or opinions expressed therein. The wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society are responsible, though we have to admit some part in calling our readers "wacky inbred illiterate fringes of society." Let's just call the whole thing even, 'kay?

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