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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Few were happier than good Samaritan Rok Finger when Lee came out of his coma. Sure, Camembert appeared happy about it—a little too happy, if you ask me. But I was the one who had loaded him up with alcohol and convinced him real men can knock back a few dozen Harvey Wallbangers and then drive with no problem, so the guilt was more than enough to make me hope for him to pull through—and when he did, I expected a few questions. Where am I? How did I get back here? Why didn't you take me to a hospital? Why can't that kid walk? But this is not what I expected.

Lee after the crash did not really seem all that different from Lee before the crash (let's refer to him as Lee B.C.). Yes, he's taken to speaking in rhyme and wearing a three-foot peppermint-striped hat, but I thought it a phase we all go through. What really bothers me is he won't answer to Lee anymore and insists I eat rotten meat and eggs.

Okay, they may not actually be rotten, but they're bright green. You tell me what your first assessment is of the quality of this ham and eggs he's pushing. I wake up, my first guilt-free sleep in a week (besides my afternoon naps), and find Lee cooking breakfast. Fantastic! It appeared at first the crash actually improved him—the old Lee never cooked breakfast, woke up early, paid rent or bathed. I considered taking Camembert for a ride like Jeff Bridges took Rosie Perez in Fearless, hoping for the same great results as with Lee; or Rosie Perez herself, if I could get her in the car. That is, until Lee revealed his true colors—bright green.

I politely refused to eat his foul-colored eggs and porkskin, but that wasn't enough. He kept offering to make the setting more presentable in any way to make me eat them. A bigger or shinier plate, a glass of milk, bringing a fox to the table or threatening to trap me in a box. I'm not sure what either of those would do to improve my appetite, but he was pretty insistent. He already had the fox locked in my bedroom. I still tried to politely reject it, then I resorted to the F-word—flatulence; odd-colored food makes me gassy. But he would not be thwarted.

Even going to the office didn't stop him. He popped up in the backseat of my car and tried to shove them in my mouth. I later found him stuffed inside a drawer of my desk, which at his full 5'5" height made it uncomfortable for him, I'm sure, yet he still was trying to force these emerald eggs and bacon down my gullet. I told him I wouldn't even eat them on a train, or on a plane—though it looks an awful lot like travel food. I beat him to the punch as well by telling him I wouldn't eat them in the rain, a sewer drain, off a yellow stain, if served by Billy Zane, while listening to the Clash's "Train in Vain," wrestling Tom Payne, or if I was insane. This impressed him to no end, I believe.

Then, finally, just to be left alone, I tried them. Nobody was more surprised than I was.

I was made horribly, horribly sick. They rushed me to the emergency room and pumped my stomach, and when they found green meat and eggs, let's just say the doctors and nurses chided me into humiliation in front of the whole emergency room. They said it was obvious Lee had a severe head trauma and needed medical attention as well. And me, well, I was just an asshole for eating green eggs and ham offered by a man with a critical concussion.

So I've learned my lesson. Or maybe I haven't. I won't eat any food that isn't the right color anymore, I know that. Sometimes your instincts are dead on, and men in peppermint hats can't be trusted.

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Confound it all! And then find it again and further confound it!

That damned Stigmata Spent was caught in a lie, ruining my chances of uncovering the Biggest Conspiracy in the World (hereby called BCW). Her insistent use of words like "sweetie" and "honey-doll" unraveled all my work pretending to be a secret shadowy former CIA agent, only an estimated 5% of which call everybody "sweetie." Or maybe her being a 6'2" black transvestite stood out as a noticeable change from when I wore the fake beard.

It matters not. The result is two-fold disaster: My previous cover is blown, leaving me out of the loop once more, and possibly worse, they've tightened the circle in their little conspiracy so I'm less likely than ever to get in. Nuts! I knew my luck would run out. I finally stumble upon the biggest earth-shaking cover-up ever, right in the early stages, and lose it all trying to win big at my annual secret-circle poker game. The irony is palpable.

But when I fall off the horse, I beat the horse to death, like they say. I don't give up. So I've already started putting together my newest disguise, and have even road-tested a few of them just to make sure.

One thing is sure: drag is out. Stigmata Spent might be able to play a convincing man, but it's probably due to the fact she was born one. I, on the other hand, make a less than convincing woman. In fact, children on the street point me out as "the fat man wearing a dress." Which is totally unfair, because though my weight may fluctuate, I'm hardly fat. I even shaved my beard and it didn't work, although my 5 o'clock shadow has already grown in by the time I hit the streets. Who knows, it doesn't have to be an entirely physical problem, it could just be my terrible sense for women's fashion.

Who wants to be a woman anyway? Besides women, of course, no cheap shot at you ladies. But I have a barrel full of disguises. A literal barrel, and they're starting to smell like pickles, since that's what I used to keep in the barrels. I can always explain away a pickle smell, however, so that's the least of my problems.

My ideal disguise would be something stylish and cool, a character that leaves the conspiracists in such awe of me they don't even ask me my name. My first choice is international Swedish jewel thief Borge Nills Wafer. 'Cause who better to add to the BCW than the world's foremost jewel thief? Of course, they may already have the world's foremost jewel thief, and then we'd have to have a major thievery contest to establish which of us is the superior thief, but that's pretty outlandish. Still, I have to plan on every contingency, I have to make my newest character infallible to their suspicions. My star-spangled jewel thief costume might not pass muster. In fact, the whole jewel thief thing may go out the window, since I'm basically a clumsy heavyset man who's never stolen anything worth taking.

I'm still working this all out on paper, as you can see.

I've got play to my strengths. I'm well-fed, spoiled, stinking rich, and obstinate in getting anything I want. Texas oil magnate seems a natural disguise, just off the top of my head. Hey! I could even go by the nickname "Tex." And conspiracists love Texas, just ask anyone in Deely Plaza in 1963.

I think it just might work. Assuming, of course, no one reading this column tips the insiders to my intentions. So let's all keep quiet out there, okay? Not only for the sake of my fun, but for the future of mankind as well.

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