Tagging the Turd

Yesterday, I met the Mighty Mandrax and the Godson for breakfast. They had generously offered to keep the Offspring for New Year's Eve, giving both him and us a welcome respite. Not knowing what would be open early on the 1st of January, we opted for the Bob's Big Boy in Burbank. Huge menu with something for everyone. Sort of like an authentic prototype of the Cheesecake Factory.

After the meal, I dashed into the men's room. With all other receptacles taken, I was forced to use the handicap stall, which I normally avoid. Creeps me out for some reason. But today, it was obviously meant to be. For there, on the handicap railing, was a graffiti tag. You know, the scribblings that are completely indecipherable unless you're a retarded middle school dropout with a gun and a bandana and an anger management problem.

Tagging was originally the province of street gangs, who used the marks to claim their turf. Sort of like Columbus and the West Indies. But I digress. the marks were intended to tell a rival to steer clear of the area or risk great peril

But now, in a perfect emasculation of the entire phenomenon, someone had claimed the handicap stall as their own. Ohhhh, SNAP! "Watch out bitch! This is MINE!! Get the fuck out of the handicrapper at the Burbank Bob's Big Boy. I own this shit."

You're kidding right? I laughed so hard. What a nice start to the New Year. It was so misplaced and so juvenile. I just kept thinking it was probably some young LA Stephen Hawking type, trying to be street.