The Sleeping Bear

It’s not often I get to travel to Iowa. Which, come to think about it, isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But when I heard Local H was playing in Waterloo on a Friday two days before my birthday, I decided to make the four-hour roadtrip from the Twin Cities in the hope of catching a different Local H album during the 6 Angry Records tour. You see, I had already notched 12 Angry Months onto my bedpost during the H’s foray to Maplewood, MN to start the West Coast leg of the tour, and now I was hoping  to notch another as the tour neared its close.

Which brings me to my Word of the Day: Fortuitous.

Before heading out to the only state that begins will two vowels, I decided to take a cue from Local H and randomly select an album from my MP3 player to listen to while I packed up. The winner? As Good as Dead, the classic H album that put them on the map. Hmm…was my randomly selected album to be duplicated that night?

Remember that Word of the Day?

Four hours and one godawful McDonalds Angus burger and fries with more salt than the Pacific Ocean and I was parked at the Baymont Inn in sleepy Waterloo, just a couple short hours away from H bliss. Just a brief aside: My wife had a bit of an issue with the Baymont. Sure it was clean. Sure, it had HBO. And sure they had a free continental breakfast. But man, what was with the color scheme? The bright yellow walls reflected the glare. Making me feel like a cooking hamburger, sending her into a funk and sending us out to the local convenience store to get some Red Bull to cheer us up.

That’s more foreshadowing than fortuitous.

Around 9 p.m. we left for the show. The ride there was uneventful, though I do wonder if anyone lives in Waterloo. Seemingly the only thing moving on the three lane highway I traveled to get to the show was me.  I guess the Iowa Department of Transportation is flush with cash – two lanes? No, let’s make this little used road three! And then we’ll go cow-tipping!

We arrived at Spicoli’s shortly thereafter. Much like the Rock in Maplewood, it sits squarely in the center of an aging strip mall. Unlike the Rock, it’s not a real big place, with the small stage angling to play partially to a wall 5 feet away. After paying the $10 fee, we selected a table to the left of the bar.

Yup, that was fortuitous.

We entered during the tail end of a set by a band called Hazer. They weren’t bad. Actually pretty decent. From the bits and pieces I picked up, they hail from Cedar Falls and I think they recently replaced their drummer and/or bass player, so were on a not-so-brief hiatus until this show.

Next up was Left Brain Heart. Gotta say, they rocked it again. I’m a fan. Wicked good drumming, solid screaming and decent enough guitar and bass jams to make them better than a punk band.

In the middle of the Left Brain Heart set, Hazer set up their merch booth in the booth to the left of us. Next thing I know Brian St. Clair, dressed in a Remember Michael Rosenquist t-shirt wandered by and struck up a conversation with the Hazer lead singer. Then it was Scott’s turn to pass through multiple times. Is it sad to be intimidated by your rock idols and unable to look directly at them in fear that making eye contact will burn your eyes? Well, let’s just say now I understand the screaming idolatry of teary teens during the Beatles Invasion. I nearly pulled a Wayne and Garth I’m not worthy on the spot.

From there, the wife picked up a couple of Miller Lites (almost paying for them with bandaids instead of cash) and we worked our way up front for some rockin’. Scott came out and I could tell he was in a good mood. Which always means the show is going to rock. He was talkative, picking out a guy in a Sex Pistols shirt to harass. Of course, Nevermind the Bullocks guy was partially to blame, counting himself a fan since ‘96 who, oddly, had never seen Local H live. Scott quickly asked another guy how many times he’d seen Local H and “13″ was the reply. My measly 5 was looking pretty meagre. Hell, there was even a shaven head guy who I think I saw in Maplewood and who was on his third show in three nights. Hats off, trooper.

Unfortunately, he thought Scott had picked him to draw the album from the hat and began to reach for the hat for the selection. Problem was, Scott hadn’t officially christened him the official album selector, told him his impatience cost him the pick, and passed the hat to 13-show guy. Who promptly selected As Good As Dead, the 1996 classic, much to the delight of the crowd.

Was it fortuitous that it was the same album I’d selected that morning?

As the band rolled into Manifest Destiny Part 1 and Bound for the Floor (for tuning reasons, I’m guessing the album wasn’t played in order), I could tell it was going to be a great night. The band was tight, as usual, and Scott was giddy as a schoolgirl. After missing a note during No Problem, Lucas looked offstage to the boys from Left Brain Heart and smiled, then gave them the finger after what I assume was some gentle ribbing. Whereas in Maplewood he barely noticed the Left Brain Heart crew, he seemed to revel in their stage appearances this time around, smiling when the drummer appeared in a cowboy hat, eventually introducing him as “Ryan, everyone.” Laughing at him as he played the tamborine. I don’t know if the group had bonded on the road or if Lucas just didn’t like the vibe in Maplewood (I tend toward the latter), but it seemed like he was enjoying himself a lot more than the previous show I saw.

And I think the performance bore out that rosier attitude. Noticing a guy wearing a straw hat, Lucas asked “What kind of hat is that?” “My drinking hat.” was the reply. Liking the reply, Lucas told the guy, who’d been screaming for Rita all night, that he’d wear the hat when they reached that song. He didn’t disappoint, grabbing the hat halfway through the song and wearing it as he played the remainder. When straw hat man tried to get Scott to keep it, he said “I don’t think I can pull off this hat” and passed it back to the inebriated owner.

Whereas Maplewood was a bunch of folks standing around, Waterloo was a bunch of people NOT standing around.  The crowd was rocking, though part of that may have been due to the album selected. Let’s face it, everyone has heard As Good As Dead, even casual fans. High-Fiving Motherfucker, Back in the Day and Fritz’s Corner are aggressive, in your face slabs of fury. And they whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

And yet, for me, the highlight of the AGAD set might have been one of the slower songs – O.K. What’s always struck me about that song was the second guitar that kicks in 5 minutes in and builds to a feedback-laden crescendo. The song doesn’t work live without that second guitar, and thankfully the H had planned for just such an occasion with  Left Brain Heart filling in the gaps. It was a thing of beauty.

Remember my cooked burger foreshadowing? Well, Brian had the same feeling, standing up to complain about the powerful light shining directly on him. Scott immediately riffed on it, saying Brian didn’t like feeling like a cooked burger. I guess the light setup was not fortuitous for Brian, though Scott was able to get in a couple jokes at his discomfort.

Brian wasn’t the only one experiencing discomfort during the set. My wife also experienced an uncomfortable moment when Scott stared at her for an extended period of time.  She always asked “I wonder how uncomfortable people feel when he stares at them.” Well, she learned quickly as he stared a good 15 seconds with an expressionless look on his face.

After wrapping up As Good As Dead, the band plowed through songs from other albums that consisted of (not even close to the right order):

California Songs
All the Kids Are Right
Rita
Hands on the Bible
White Belt Boys
All Right Oh Yeah
Wolf Like Me

Before exiting the stage, Scott waxed poetic about how great the proprietors of Spicoli’s were, saying they were some of the best owners they’d run into touring the US, going so far as to say they liked them almost to the point of handjobs. The crowd applauded, he roared into the final three songs and then over to the merch booth, and presumably signed a certain fan’s straw hat.

And with that, ears ringing, the little lady and I exited Spicoli’s on our way back to the yellow walls of the Baymont Inn. But nature had one more show in store for us in the form of a remarkable 7 second lightning display that splashed across the sky. It was the perfect ending to a perfect night.

Some might say it was fortuitous. To me, to quote Chris Farley, “That. Was. Awesome!”

I’ll turn 34 in a few weeks. So dragging my old, lazy, hairy-back and hairy-eared body to concerts isn’t something I routinely do. Sure, in my youth I headbanged to the best of them – landing in the front row for Slayer and Sepultura, moshing as part of a seething mass of humanity to Rage Against the Machine, taking in System of a Down, Tool, Slipknot, the Deftones, Metallica, Pantera, Sabbath, Danzig, Suicidal Tendencies, Soundgarden – the list is almost endless. However, concerts are for either the really young or, as I learned tonight, the really drunk. Sadly, I’m neither.

But one band I don’t miss is Local H. When they come to town, I’m there. Why? My wife would say I have a mancrush on Scott Lucas. That’s probably not far from the truth. How much of a mancrush? Well, let just say if he asked me to massage his taint, I’d probably do it. Before you judge, hear me out. That’s not sexual – there’s no kibbles and bits being touched nor any anal play. Just that bald space in between, and taint massaging among compadres.

Throw in that the show cost a measly $5 and that it was just down the road at the Rock in Maplewood, and it was pretty much the thing wet dreams are made of. So I strapped on my white tennis shoes (hey, I’m an old dude, what do you expect), jeans and a t-shirt and made the 5 minute trek to the Rock.

We arrived to a half-full parking lot, walked in and mosied on over to the back of the bar just as one of the opening acts – All the Way Rider I believe was their name – was doing a quick sound check. Sound check complete, and they opened with what wasn’t a half bad tune. A shade of complex rock music without being too corporate. Wasn’t bad. The songs started to sound a lot alike later in thet set, but I wouldn’t be averse to hearing them again.

After that was Left Heart Brain. Color me impressed. Drummers that good should be in rock bands selling out arenas, not playing dive bars in my hometown. Insane drumwork. Apparently, what I gather is that Chicago’s Left Heart Brain features former members of the Minneapolis group Filling Avoid. Which would explain the crowd they garnered. Quite a following, and for good reason. That bearded drummer could play, man.

So after Left Heart Brain, it was time for the Big Show – Local H. We meandered up to the front. Now, I’m no musical genius, but there’s no way a band as good as Local H should have less people standing in the crowd than the opening act. But I think that’s what happened. From my vantage point near the bar at the back, Left Brain Heart was playing to a pretty solid crowd. As soon as they exited, so did the crowd. Which was good for me, since I ended up in the second row stage left, directly in front of drummer, and bird watcher, Brian St. Clair.

Which gave me a great view as some obviously inebriated fellow walks past me, pushes on to the railing, stands there for about 5 seconds, throws his drink at Brian’s drumkit, and leaves.

The idea behind Local H’s 6 Angry Records Tour is that they throw the names of all their records into a hat. Then a member of the audience selects from the hat and they play that album – in order – from the first song to the last. So after setting up, Scott Lucas takes the stage and asks for an audience member to do the deed. He selects someone, who pulls out Jagged Little Pill. Solid humor right there. A second audience member is selected and 12 Angry Months pops out.

I was hoping for something else (I’ve been listening to nothing but 12AM and 68 Angry Minutes lately), but was still pretty pumped to hear a bunch of songs I’ve never heard live. So the H kicks into The One With Kid – which is rockin’ live – and the meager crowd gets a tad excited. Notice I say a tad. These aren’t the good old days, when mosh pits and crowd surfing were the norm – if you weren’t running into or over folks, you weren’t having a good time – and I quickly learned why. Before long two overexcited (and drunk) fans were being escorted out. One only seemed to be bouncing up and down and stumbled into another dude, hardly grounds for dismissal.

After that it was on to Michelle, which you guessed it, rocks live. The folks from Left Brain Heart joined in on the screams at the end of the song, something they proceeded to do throughout the night. The band rolled through BMW Man and then on to White Belt Boys, a song I trashed in my album review. Um, let’s just say that live it’s incredible. The tribal drumming at the end (again assisted by Left Brain Heart) is something I can get into. Rockin’ stuff.

Next up, they plowed through the Summer of Boats and Taxi-Cabs (two of my favorite songs from 12AM), with Brian absolutely destroying the manic drumming near the end of Taxi-Cabs. 24-Hour Breakup Session followed, the first (and only?) single off of 12AM – yup, you guessed it, excellent live. Jesus Christ! Did You See the Size of That Sperm Whale followed and the crooning Simple Pleas took ballads to new heights.

We were about halfway into the show and I was really digging it. The band sounded tight. I’ve seen a lot of bands live and it’s very rare that they can make songs on an album sound better live than recorded. You get bad vocals, dirty guitar work, whatever. But the H brought it on the first nine, and to use a golf analogy, were well under par making the turn home.

And that’s when they chunked a 9 iron into the water. They broke into Machine Shed Wrestling, only the drumming just didn’t seem right. A minute in, Scott stopped it. Walked back to his amps, then came back to announce they were starting over with Machine Shed Wrestling. He looked at Brian, who seemed to say he couldn’t hear out of his monitor. Scott glared back, saying “That’s an excuse – look at the setlist.”

And it was off to Machine Shed for the second try. This time they nailed it, but that didn’t ease the tension. After the song, Scott again walked back to his stack, while Brian rolled into Blur. Which prompted Scott to flip his drummer the finger.

I felt bad for the guy. Here they were – in a fucking stripmall next to a Pizza Hut – playing to a sparse crowd on a Tuesday night. Playing their asses off, too, so that a few hardcore fans like me could enjoy them. It’s the same old rock cliche – a band that hadn’t sniffed the commercial success of 13 years ago still plugging away in rundown bars in decaying towns.  And for what? So some drunk guys drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon 32 ouncers in front me (more on that later) could take their minds off their shitty lives with a few cold ones, beer clanking and high fives?

Maybe that’s why I love the H. They aren’t in it for the money. They aren’t in it for the fame. They make music because it’s what they’ve always done. And because they love it. And because they are fucking incredible at it. And because, in some small measure, they give fans like me and drunk guys like the Pabsters a couple of hours of pure bliss every couple of years when they roll through.

With that, we were off onto the highs and lows of the epic Hand to Mouth, a wonderfully crafted, orchestral romp and the end of the 12 Angry Months portion of the festivities.

From there, it was on to the classics, starting with All the Kids Are Right, a song, ironically enough, about how kids turn away from a band after they have a bad show.  Scott introduced it with “Here’s a song about tonight’s show.”

Kids segued quickly into Fritz’s Corner, quite possibly my favorite H song. I used to crank this slab of aggression on my long commutes home and rock out. And holy shit was it angry live. Sounded great, headbanging began and the H was back in the groove that had started the show.

Ironic song number 2 was next, High Fivin’ Mother Fucker. Which, upon hearing the opening feedback, the Pabsters in front of me, well, started high fiving’. So let me set the scene – these four larger guys, all drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from 32 ounce cans, the tall ones, throughout the show were doing all sorts of entertaining drunk antics. Like routinely thrusting their cans as high as they could and crashing them together. Or fist pumping along to the song. Or lots of headbanging. Some slow hand waving. And even some head slapping. And let’s not forget the time one of the four went back to the bar for some shots, came back with three, passed them to his drunken compatriots, and then, very slowly, realized he hadn’t taken one for himself. Classic drunken hijinks.

So I had a good chuckle when High Fivin’ came on and they high fived, just like the antagonist of said song. Only, these guys weren’t the High Fivin’ Motherfucker. They weren’t bothering anyone else. Just having some good, clean drunken fun amongst friends.

From here, my memory is a little fuzzy on the order songs were played. Yeah, I’m old, deal with it. I think up next was California Songs, which had the Pabst boys chanting “Fuck New York. Fuck New York. Fuck New York.” From there, we flowed into Hands on the Bible. Which apparently the drunk redhead who had been in front of me was screaming for all night, only to have Scott play it while she was away, to which he said “Is she gone? Alright, now we’ll play it.” About halfway through, she reappeared, which had Scott saying “No!” into the mic during a verse. Another reason I love the H – they aren’t afraid to rip their fans if they’re acting like tools.

From there, the H rolled into Bound for the Floor, a staple of their live shows and their most popular song. Good tune, but I was disappointed. Usually the middle of Bound contains a snippet of another song – Toxic, or 25 or 6 to 4 or lately Rainbow in the Dark – but there was no such appearance tonight. Just Bound straight through. Which had me thinking we were done.

Thinking wrongly, though, as Brian immediately rolled into the killer drumline for Manifest Destiny Part II, a long foray into drumming and guitar madness at hyperspeed. I loved every second of it, and before I knew it, the show was over, with Scott walking off stage right to man the merch booth and Brian going the opposite direction stage left and backstage. Take that for what it’s worth, needless to say there was no post coital hug among bandmates after the show.

As the lights popped on and the sparse crowd headed for the merch booth, the bar or the exits at nearly 12:30, I was left wondering – is this my last Local H concert? I’d always kind of thought that the end of the road was near for Local H – nearly 4 years in between PJ Soles and 12 Angry Months, Scott’s growing list of side projects, a dwindling fanbase – despite a killer new record – and a once strong army on their message board that was slowly fading to two or three routine posters.

Is it the end of an era? For a band that I fell in love with late in their run (I didn’t really become a big-time fan until PJ Soles, despite seeing them a couple times in the As Good As Dead era), I certainly hope not. They’re still putting out incredible music. They’re still putting on live shows to rival any band out there. They’re still doing things no other band will do, like picking a  setlist out of a hat. That means you have to know intimately every one of the 70+ songs in your catalog and be able to play them well in front of a live audience. No other band will put themselves through that when it’s a lot easier to play the hits or live staples.

I hope it’s not the end. But if it is, I’d like to stand up and thank Scott and Brian for putting out exceptional music that I truly connected with, performing live shows that exhilarate their fans, and making music that I’ll listen to until I can’t hear anymore. Which, given my advancing age, may be sooner than I’d like to admit.

I’ve had a job for quite some time. I know it’s hard to suspend your disbelief this early in my post, but do it. Anyway, for the past four or so years, I’ve worked for the same company. Today, we happened to have our annual kickoff meeting. You know, those meetings at the beginning of the year when goals are set, the past year is revisited and the future corporate vision is proclaimed.

That should be your first clue that my company is just a tad bit special. We’re well into the second quarter and we’re just now deciding to get together for an annual kickoff meeting to reveal our annual goals. You do the math. At least it’s not June like a couple years ago. And at least there are goals – and a budget – unlike when I started. Yeah, management might have been taking the “Be Different” message they learned at some retreat a tad bit too seriously back then. Or they thought they were a government entity.

Let me succinctly summarize the mantra of the 2009 recap: “Fucking economy.” It killed us, which isn’t surprising given we sit squarely in the hiring process. If people aren’t hiring, we’re screwed. And we were. Of course, that was a complete 180 from what was said two years ago. And I quote: “We’re not affected by economic downturns.” Endquote.

Now that we’ve recapped 2009, let’s introduce our new sales executive. He’s the man. He’s going to triple our revenue in 6 years. He’s done it before (in three) at a competitor and knows what he’s doing. He’s a mentor and a leader. Sales will save the company.

Cue the finance guy to show us how the economic downturn killed us. And specific steps we’re taking to streamline processes and save. Not a great public speaker like the Sales guy or the CEO, but he did provide actionable items and data-driven analysis. Which the former could have used a little more of.

Next up: 2010 corporate goals. The first one? “Reduce resignations by 10%.” Now I don’t know if you are like me, but that sets off alarm bells. That many people have resigned that you have to set a goal to lower the number? And how are you going to do that, having still not reinstated things like a 401K match or even merit raises?

A hand shoots up. “When are you going to reinstate 401K matches and merit raises.”

The CEO sheepishly turns to the finance guy, who essentially says neither was built into the 2010 budget. Now I don’t have a steel-trap for a brain, but something seems incongruous there. We have no incentive to not resign. So why won’t we? Throw in that, to use Seth Godin’s term, one of the company’s linchpins just resigned two weeks ago and most of the 10-15 people that report to her have sent her their resume in the hopes of following, and I think it’s a tall order. But I guess I don’t run a $60 million, make that $40-million-after-fucking-2009 dollar privately owned company.

So some more “rah-rah-rah, I’m rededicating myself to this company” speeches from the CEO and we’re done. And I’m left wondering which side of the resignation number I’m going to be on.

I likey me some sports. Football, basketball, baseball, hockey, soccer, rugby, curling, mixed martial arts, boxing –  I’ll watch ‘em if they’re on. Hell, I’ve even watched the rodeo a time or two. Which means I’ve been exposed to more announcers than Catholic priests have exposed themselves to children. Heck, I even kinda like Joe Buck. And think the dudes who do the Viking pre-season games  - Mike Mayock and Ari Wolfe – aren’t half bad. Yeah, I know.

Which leads me to my point. I fucking hate Verne Lundquist. I’m sure he’s a good guy. Seems like he’s having fun. He has called a lot of memorable moments – from Dallas Cowboys Super Bowls, to SEC title games, to Christian Laettner’s game-winner against Kentucky. He’s even referred to as the Golden Throat in announcer circles.

Well, I’d like to stuff a certain something into that Golden Throat and turn it into Deep Throat. Hard to mumble “Wow!” when your mouth is full – at least that’s my logic.  Being straight, I wouldn’t enjoy it much, but I’ll take one for the team so other guys can enjoy sporting events. It’s how I roll – team player and all.

If I have to hear another “Oh my!” from his flappy face again, I might just go Kurt Cobain. He brings absolutely nothing to the game. Last night I was watching Tennessee defeat Ohio State to gain their first berth in the Elite 8 in the school’s history (yeah, Verne told us that nugget at least 23 times) and he prattled on about a player not wearing his headband. Never mind that Tennessee had just switched from an aggressive man-to-man defense to a passive 2-3 zone. Fuck, who cares about that? THE GUY LOST HIS HEADBAND! That’s sure to have an outcome on the game.

It’s sad, but Lundquist is the reason I hate SEC football. Can’t stand it. If Lundquist were here, he’d put in a poorly timed “Oh…….My………Goodness!” right about now.  I don’t wish I were Helen Keller often, but every time I have, I’ve been watching roly-poly Lundquist stumble slowly over his words.

I know, he’s just a guy doing his job, so I should say something nice about him. At least he turns 70 this June. Which means the cancer is likely to get him sometime soon, right? Hey, I’m not wishing cancer on him – just saying his odds of working another two decades are slim, right?

I just hope he hasn’t turned me off sports entirely by then. Or that I haven’t gotten used to muting games that he’s calling. Or that, heaven forbid, he has a kid honing his craft calling Latvian Basketball Association games just waiting for his dad’s mic to open up.

Shit. I don’t pray to God often, but before I go Google “Vern Lundquist Children”, I’m going to say a prayer. Please. God. No.

In your opinion, listening to Verne Lundquist is like:

• Eating a turd covered in sperm. Your fat uncle's turd. And your grandpa's sperm.
• Having your balls sawed off with a very dull knife. And then shoving one into your anus. And the other into your peehole.
• Like being buried in used tampons. And having to eat your way out.
• Like having 1,000 fire ants sting your crotch. And then pouring habanero sauce over your stung junk.

View Results

 Loading ...

I have a job, which is hard to believe, I know. Since I work 9 to 10 hours a day, it’s inevitable that I have to use the bathroom facilities. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except the bathroom is outside our office and shared by every Johnson, Dick, and Visanthe who wanders into our building. UPS dudes, my co-workers, the few folks remaining in the mortgage joint next door, all share the same two-urinal, one-toilet-stall wonderment we call the first floor bathroom.

I know your mom told you to share. Well, I’m here to tell you sharing a bathroom isn’t something that should be done. The etiquette in that bathroom is proof of the cultural decline of America. Screw the collapse of our free market economy or peak oil, historians will look back at the shared bathroom etiquette as the true beginning of the end. I’m not being hyperbolic – the shit I’ve seen (unfortunately, literally) in just three short years has me wondering what the hell happened.

Don’t believe me? Here’s my proof:

• Proof Point #1 – Every time I walk into the bathroom – be it 7 a.m. or 6 p.m. – there’s a puddle under the nearest urinal. Now, call me crazy, but I have no problem hitting the urinal. It’s pretty big. And pretty wide. A swaying Stevie Wonder could hit the damn thing. So why can’t anyone else?At first I chalked it up to condensation. Or faulty plumbing. But then I realized that condensation typically isn’t yellow. Nor does it smell like urine.
• Proof Point #2 – Cell phones are a great invention. They allow you to talk to anyone damn near anywhere. Including the first floor bathroom.”Uh, yeah, I’m calling because I’d like to order a pizza.”Seriously? You’re sitting there expelling the pizza you had last night, the stench of which is making me gag, and decided it was time for another? It couldn’t wait until you were back at your desk, car or cardboard box?”Can I get extra anchovies?”
• Ahh, it all makes sense now.
• Proof Point #3 – As a wise man once said, you have to know when to hold ‘em. Meaning, if you’re standing next to me and taking a leak, don’t start farting. Not cool. Know when to hold ‘em there buddy. And if you do let one leak, don’t say “Better check my drawers on that one.” Really not cool.
• Proof Point #4 – Speaking of talking, how about you not do it at all? My favorite was when I walked in and a dude taking a piss at the urinal was having a conversation with the guy dropping the kids off at the pool in the stall.
  “Did you watch Jersey Shore last” – grunt – “night?”
  “Nope. But I TIVO’d it.”
  “It was awesome – one of the guido bitches”  plop, splash  “got punched in the face!”

  New rule – no dropping spoilers while dropping soilers, OK?

• Proof Point #5 – Possibly the oddest thing I see in the first floor bathroom, though: Boogers. I guess when you’re emptying your colon, it’s also a good time to empty your nostrils. And by no means should you use the toilet paper next to you – just pick and flick, or pick and wipe on the wall. Cause dried boogers are fun to look at.

Those are just five proof points and I’m sure if I inspected the women’s bathroom I could come up with many, many more (soiled toilet paper in the garbage? Really?). As far as this shitting pisser is concerned, the decline of Western civilization has begun and the proof is in the chocolate pudding.