Boston Pizza Restroom

Order a couple of Boston-sized domestic beers. Down them quick. Get a buzz. Walk into the washroom. Single urinal, poorly placed. CSI analysis of the splatter pattern beneath the urinal. Sticky soles as I stand. Stare at the wall. Grimy two tone tiles, light and dark purple. Momentary stage fright, then I pisseth (wink, wink). Top forty tunes from a tinny speaker. Wash my hands. Pink soap and water paint the pattern of the Metallica Load album on the counter. Look in the mirror as I stand in place. Punchable disgrace with the Fight Club face. Straight from the script, “This is your life. Good to the last drop.” Automatic towel dispenser won’t work. Over sensor hand twerk. Wipe hands on jeans and walk away. Three towels eject. Vvvvvp. Vvvvvp. Vvvvvp. Mutter something.

As bad as it sounds, a caveman would love this spot.

A warm, safe place to piss. Eth.

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