The Jr. High School I went to was built on a hill, way before hills were simply relocated. As such, the middle of the school was built on earth, but cantilevered out on both sides, so you could walk underneath the building. We weren’t allowed to, of course, but sometimes we snuck under there, and it was there that I read my first piece of restroom poetry.

Here I sit all broken hearted,

tried to shit, but only farted.

I’ve often wondered, over the years, what possesses someone to want to write on walls, stalls, tables, or anything that isn’t meant to be written on, since I have never felt the urge to do so. Apparently, expressing your most juvenile, crude thoughts in public spaces is not something one with such perclivities outgrows with age or the accumulation of wealth, as seen by this skywriting that someone actually paid money for.

Whoever financed this ridiculous display, please, call me next time you get the urge to piss away your money. I’ll do us both a favor, hit you in the head with a tack hammer, take your money, and put it to better use than you could ever possibly.