Like a stomach problem brewing inside of you, “Stadiums of Shit” hasn’t come to fruition in quite some time but the dream was always there. However, I, your humble creator of this hit series, have decided that I would review one last bathroom before I disappear from Stony Brook, much like expensive food into a toilet.
Let me just clarify that I am graduating and not dying. As I’ve always wanted an on-the-road edition of “Stadiums of Shit,” I have decided to review a gas station’s bathroom.
I walked up to the bathroom door, which was of course locked and then had to walk inside. The man in line in front of me was like a caricature of a person as he was the only person I’ve ever seen ever buy “Horny Goat Weed” and also felt no shame in purchasing it in front of people. Whereas eyes are considered the window to one’s soul, the cashier’s dazed and soulless expression told me he had seen far worse horrors than a man trying to reproduce like his goat-esque ancestors.
Finally it was my turn to speak with the man who quite literally had nothing left to lose in his life save for his own life, and I asked for the key to the bathroom. I was met with a strange juxtaposition as he handed me a key attached to a comically sized orange key-chain in the shape of a larger key, but his face was still drained.
As I walked outside toward the bathroom, I wondered what horrors that man must have experienced at the gas station. The bathroom was actually refreshingly clean. It was a pleasant surprise until I immediately noticed there was only the empty brown roll of the toilet paper roll and my task required me to sit down. I stayed standing there for a moment, calculating in my head the time it would take to drive back home and the likelihood that I could make it there and also have my own bathroom be unoccupied. The odds were against me in all scenarios.
I sat down on the cold porcelain and shuddered, imagining all of these cartoon bandit germs jumping onto me. When my business call with the toilet had concluded, I sat for a moment, wondering what I should do. And like Obi-Wan spoke to Luke through the Force in his X-Wing to give him advice, I pictured the ghost of Stadiums Writer Past, Andy Polhamus. He said nothing but waved his hands in the direction of the brown toilet paper roll. I knew what must be done.
After I concluded with Andy’s task, I thoroughly washed my hands as one does and then paused as I reached for the door knob. Did I want to ruin my perfectly clean hands by touching this door knob? I once again imagined those cartoon bandit germs just waiting for my hands to touch it. I kicked the door handle down, immediately realized I haven’t stretched my legs in years and pushed open the door to the sweet smell of gasoline.
I returned the key to the man, wishing I could keep the plastic key-chain, and returned home.
I’d just like to thank you all for reading Stadiums of Shit over the past two years or however long its been and I’d especially like to thank Andy Polhamus, Tom Johnson, Bushra Mollick, Siobhan Cassidy and Jessica Adamowicz for having the humor to write along side me.

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