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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Scream out loud in joyous revelry, good people. I get married this weekend and the last gasp of the single man is coming out now. We call it the bachelor party.

You may interrupt me with more of your trademark, "But Rok…" shit, but I don't have time to stop and listen. When is the bachelor party, you ask? Was it last night, last weekend? Or is it tonight? Bitch, Rok Finger don't throw no pissant four-hour bachelor party. It's going on presently. All week, from the official first night Red Bagel invited us over for the ceremonial cracking of the first keg right up until I say my drunken wedding vows. I'm going to party like it's the last week of my life! It effectively is, I believe.

It started out as a typical bachelor party plan, when fortunately good friend and a little too-hippie-for-my-tastes associate Omar Bricks got involved, with the sage advice that one-night parties were earmark signs of a pussy. Am I pussy, he asked me? Well, obviously I disagreed with that notion, so once we got the liquor flowing at Bagel's house, we decided the bachelor party would set a Guinness record. Though how much Guinness one man can drink before he drops dead is anyone's guess. Assuming Boner Cunningham is actually still breathing, he may be the title holder. We would check and see but most of us are too drunk to bend over that far without going down for good.

All the dudes and Lil Duncan are invited to the happenin' bachelor party. We tried to keep Lil out, but when you mix alcohol and men together she estimates she has a moral obligation to attend. All of my private friends and office mates of the XY-gender are enjoying the festivities, except for Ramrod Hurley. That man will enjoy the slow rot on a spit in hell, and I won't have him muck up my social events. But even former office camel toe Raoul Dunkin is having fun. At least he was before Bagel & company t.p.'d him and sent him rolling down the stairs to see how far he could roll through the offices of Crochet! magazine.

Yes, even my old drinkin'/apartment livin' buddies Lee and traitorous Camembert are invited. I made amends with both when we stopped by their apartment building to burn it down. Turns out it may have all been a misunderstanding, I couldn't understand Camembert too well with that wheelchair of his yelling obscenities all the time. But he and Lee joined us at the daily office party here, and it's been fun on a stick ever since. Actually, I haven't seen Camembert, and now that I think about it I don't believe the offices are handicapped accessible. Still, he had enough to drink last night where he can't even tell he's carrying on with the street people out front.

Red Bagel has been a tremendous father figure to me in my comparably short time at the commune. In all my work situations, I've never felt such a kinship with my boss, and such a dire need to keep both eyes open at all times. Maybe putting dillhole Hurley in charge for a while made me realize what a vital part Red Bagel is in all our lives, and to show him that, I've asked him to give me away at my wedding. He hasn't responded yet, he's been comatose since late Friday, but I believe he's just trying to win a bet now.

Don't feel too bad about our female co-workers, by the way. Lil Duncan may not be involved, but Ivana Folger-Balzac and Clarissa Coleman have been having their own wild bachelorette party with my wife-to-be Felchyana, showing her what it means to be an American woman. We also invited some of the other staff of commune wives and girlfriends, such as Omar Bricks' new love Osaka, Ramon Nootles' blow-up doll, and a picture Boner Cunningham cut out from a magazine. It's not quite the show ours is, considering Clarissa Coleman couldn't make it due to out-of-town engagements, and Ivana is a hyper-bitch, but neither Felchyana nor Osaka speak English, so they have that in common.

But what do I care about her needs? I'm about to be her husband! Party on, jack!

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Toudle-Lou and Toudle-Lee sat in a tree and ate cranberries. That's the way they'd wile away a Thursday in the land of Margoline. Some are fonder of a wander through the woods, while peeling strands of string cheese. But not the Toudles, for them noodles were as stringy as they cared to be.

One day Morris, in his Taurus, drove to Margoline. He'd tied a blender to his fender for making blue Icees. And unlike monks, who love the chunks, Morris liked his smooth. He voted chunkless, like his uncles, who signed up at a State Fair booth.

So Lou and Lee sat in their tree, eating their berries cran. They talked to Roger, a salty codger, who lived in a bright yellow van. They'd been through hobbies, like sleeping in lobbies, and making underwear out of cats. They'd sat in a urinal while folding the Journal into intricate stock-market hats. But even lawn bowling and old bathtub trolling had left them feeling fizzless and flat. So up in that tree is where they will be if you come round looking for your cat.

Morris and me crashed our car in that tree one Thursday late in July. The Toudles fell down with a thunderous sound and the blender flew up in the sky. Roger the codger and a lodger named Hodger ran up to inspect the commotion. The scene was a mess as everything, I confess, was all covered in cranberry lotion.

But in spite of the gore and all the marshmallow spores that swirled round like a tornado in Texas, the Toudles, I thought, were more excited than not since they though that the car was a Lexus. They drove it away, and when Morris yelled "Hey!" we just heard the horn beep "ta-ta" as they headed toward Rio. Morris thought I was wrong, he said "They're beeping along to Da Da Da by that German band Trio."

So the Toudles survived and are well and alive though now Lou has blenders on the brain. Lee accidentally ate a bird and the last that I heard the Toudles were laughing at mules out in Spain. That's the rumor today, though the word, as they say, can get twisted round as it carries. And now Morris and me sit here in their old tree and wonder where they found the berries.

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