New segment – I use public bathrooms and report on their cleanliness, design, and overall “ease of use.”
For a corporation that has proclaimed it strives to be “the best company ever,” Target sure makes its employees and guests wade through a whole lot of pubic hair and liquid waste to access their urinals. This visit started off good – I took note of the ample square footage of the stalls, the art nouveau three-quarter-eggshell urinal design – but as I saddled up to the urination station, I looked down and noticed that I was in a sea of golden waste. I finished up, being careful to find sure footing lest I slip and take a dip in the hairy bog I had become ensnared in. The sinks worked well enough, and I must commend them for not skimping on the blow dryer – my skin rippled from the gale force blast! I did have to spend a considerable amount of time in the parking lot after exiting the store, dragging my feet on the pavement in order to scrape as much of the sludge off my shoes as I could.
Final verdict – If you enjoy other people’s urine, by all means visit Apple Valley South Super Target.
Ah yes, the month of June. A season when the dreaded male variant of homo-sapien, the douchebaggus-erectus, emerges from tanning booths at Lifetime Fitness Clubs across the nation, equipped with popped collars, “athletic-fit” T’s, and protein shakes in hand. These orange-ish, shrunken-testicled oafs are what I was expecting I would be dealing with upon being invited to a quick Happy Hour beer at Bev’s Wine Bar in Minneapolis. I mean, if you have “wine bar” in your title, one would expect these specimens to flock around it like an overturned semi full of creatine on the freeway. But alas, the place was almost empty, and it was just my luck that the Twins also happen to be out of town this week (see older posts for the lowdown on that whole deal.)
But anyways, the conditions appeared to be right for a venture into this little nook nestled quietly onto Third Ave. I sauntered there with two of my associates, The Red-Headed Ghost in the Canadian Tuxedo, and Slim. And as a fun little exercise, I decided to test my versatility as a writer by assuming the identity of a snooty Englishman. Lets call him Doctor Professor Arthur Esquire Floppingtonsworth, M.D., the Third. I also ended up learning quite a bit of British slang in the process.
The atmosphere, while palpable, held distinct notes of pretension, while the furnishings suggested the eroticism of a bygone era. The bare, gray walls offered a hint of minamalistic opulence. Unfinished 10 meter-high ceilings, whether intentional on the proprietor’s part, or a by-product of brash American ennui, invite the patron to unzip his knickers and wallow in the crapulence of Western culture. One might assume that the bloke behind the bar had not cleaned it any more often than I brush my teeth. This being a winebar, we partook in a lager described to us as a full-bodied wheatbrew. Arthur will be the judge of that. As the collective U.S. waistline continues to expand at an alarming rate, one would expect a so-called full-bodied beverage to have a little more heft to its girth. These people are off their trolley! Gobsmacked that this fermented wheat drink they attempted to serve me was no more malleable than a day old bowl of mum’s figgy pudding, I had half a mind to box the barkeep’s ears right then and there. What a load of codswallop! If this is what Americans are using to get primed for rumpy-pumpy in the hoo-hah(what?), then I must bid them a squiffy ta-ta. Aren’t us Englishmen just adorable with our wonky yakking? Well, I have flapped my gums long enough, and have undoubtedly wasted precious moments of your life that you will never, ever, get back. Toodle-pip!
Today’s Blong (Blog Song) of the day comes to us from Cake. In the words a geeked-out skater once spoke to me, it’s soooooooo chiiiiiiill. Cool Blue Reason.
The Philosophunculist 