Some bathroom art strikes you immediately, impossible to remove your eyes from it. So much so, that you briefly consider spending the rest of your life on the toilet, forever locked in a staring contest with the "Mona Lisa" of hastily sketched stall pictures, but then you get a waft of that bitter atmosphere, that pungent scent of waste, and you return to reality, forcing yourself to reconcile with the truth: you can't live on the toilet, no matter how good the stall art is. Most bathroom art, however, diminishes your faith in the human race or, at least, in your respective gender, makes you wonder what muse inspired this stranger to draw his genitalia for every person who stops by the men's room at the truck stop off I-35.
In front of you, you spy the words,
Women Humans are good for:
and you wonder what the bullet points stand for. You know what they mean, but you can't help but wonder if maybe the author had more wholesome intentions in mind when he placed his sharpie against the wall. Of course, someone else had to come along to write "humans," to make the statement at least a fraction more tolerable. That person tried his damndest to cross "women" out, to make it the word completely illegible, but only a blind man would fail to notice the original intent of the piece. It makes you hang your head, your eyes welling up with tears. Has mankind really stooped so low?
You look to your right, and thank God that you did.