Where can you go for an 8 inch penis on a Wednesday at two in the afternoon?

somewhere where they “will swallow”?

Of course the answer to this is “Your mums”, but as we explore more of our extestential conscience we start to seek more definitive answers.
at first this question seems chirlish and irrelevant – and it is, there is no second.
Like I said “chirlish and irrelvant”, some might argue pointless. A wanton waste of time.

Allow me to give some context:
I, like many human beings walk.
I, like fewer than many human beings do so for recreation and pleasure. I don’t mearly use bipedal motion to lumber from method of transportation to work and back or the perpetual journey between kebab shop, pub, then the grave.

I like many human beings excrete waste both in solid and liquid form, not constantly, mind.
And this bring me on to the hot topic of public toilets – you can see how we got here can’t you?
We used to joke about them when we were in the pub – curious conversations about cruising – these relatively unobtrusive toilets in an out of the way car park off of a relatively well trodden high street in the suburban Elysium of Chislehurst on the outskirts of Greater London.

I used to notice these toilets when I was younger when we would use the recycling bins placed in close proximity to the toilets, not that I really remember much about my thoughts on them, but one pays little notice to these things when they aren’t used day-to-day. Why would anyone need public toilets? cant they go before they left their houses like mum used to remind us to do?

Then you get older, I dont mean teenager older, I mean late twenties, and what’s shit about that – I mean what is so fucking shit about that is that no one courteously mentions that it starts to happen in your 20s, you assumed it would happen around 40 or 50. You expect to get old, you know its going to happen, it’s inevetable. Like death, taxes (unless you are the President of the United States) and **insert contemporary cultural reference here**. You hide from this unstoppable temporal march through cognitative abuse, a couple of wee drinkies in the evening – an occasional couple of pints during lunch. The pub crawl on Saturdays, Sundays, birthdays, any-excuse-for-it-days…but it catches up with you. Soon enough you can’t walk between lampposts without needing to have a wee.

This is verbal rambling, I know, and I’m sorry – I guess I don’t really know what I want to say here. I think sometimes life little curiosities don’t need rationalising or describing. I just wanted to share a couple of photos and flesh it out with some words.

I suppose graffiti has been around since Geezus beta-built the world in Minecraft, I just find it funny that in these last quiet outposts of sanitation, on the wind beaten cliffs and backwater-hicksville towns, where the average age probably doesn’t go below 60, places where you would think that you could wipe your feet on silk doilies, places that are better maintained than many toilets in major cities and on train station platforms. Most of these public toilets have hot water, you can’t say the same for many pubs in the south east, and in contrast to this serene vanilla-permed existence we find these lustful graphic texts and images.

I wanted to have somewhere to share some of these wonderful discoveries, somewhere where the tomes and images will have the audience they deserve.

If it pleases the court M’lud, exhibit one:

Is this a dude sitting on a mirror. Is it conjoined? There’s something in his eyes penetrating me. It’s almost like he knows a dark secret of mine. If you look closely near the knees you can see the rough sketch before he commits with a bolder stroke. I don’t think its bad. To use the caption – I like it. I wish I could draw like that. I can’t imagine that this guy took a long time to do it, which makes it more impressive.

exhibit 2:

Ninja Mutant Hero Turtle, anyone?
One word. shading.
If I could get my shading to be half that good, I would be happy. Did you ever draw yourself as a child – not like this. I mean like with the ridiculously wide, uneven shoulders. I still draw like that. I can’t help it, I’m just a terrible drawerer. I keep at it though, in the hope that it just snaps into place and then anything I see in my mind’s eye can be reproduced in crayon on greaseproof paper, oil paints on the rug or blood on the walls – not mine, the walls that is, I don’t own any, blood though. I have some.
The image is pretty good for proportions as well, the arms come down to the right length, the only thing I would question is the size of his right boot. just a little too big if you ask me – really ruins the illusion.

Anyway, that’s it for now. If I can make it into a toilet over the weekend, I will.



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