I read what is called a 'plog' (all these newfangledy words, who the hell can keep up with this crap?) on the website for Kansas City's 'Pitch' magazine. The post was an apparently recurring hilarious and demeaning-for-all-concerned adventure into the world of KC'S public bar restrooms.
Then it hit me. I live in a small town, not far from a big town like KC, and we have one of the most interesting bar bathroom scenes around! What a perfect topic for this crazy blog! Of course this begs the question, why has this never been covered before?? We can't be sure, but it is clearly high time!
One of our most bizarre(bazaar) examples of freaky is the curious case of the completely crazy millionaire who built a museum quality over-the-top bar and then purposefully ruined it and abandoned it. It had great restrooms, if you don't count that there was only one stall in the women's restroom which couldn't be viewed on the scurvy hidden cameras that fed straight up to the sawed-off old cooter's apartment right across the street.
Then, there was the famous little Bar B Que bar that used to grace our main drag with the beautiful smell of smoked meats; known for not only the highly talented cook, but also the never-empty table covered in cards, ashtrays, and the ramblings of ancient rednecks in overalls, three feet from the ladies' restroom which was lovingly painted goose puke purple by the owner, a six foot tall red-headed, fully armed ex naval nurse lady.
There were at one time several bars here, but the only remaining drinking establishments are the VFW hall, the Elk's Lodge, one piss poor excuse for a bar and grill that no one frequents, and the gem of a small town, 'Winter's Bone', cowherding, creepy-townie, drunken-fat-lesbian-ladies'-nite bar whose restroom graces the rest of this page.
I love the owner of this bar, who ten years ago resembled a fifth runner up in a fat Ron Jeremy contest, but now looks like one of those Mexican Mariachi dolls made out of shiny orange wood, with painted black hair and a moustache. His persona is legendary baby! If the city officials didn't sort of minutely do their job, I'm pretty sure the number on the sign out front would read 1-800-COCK. There are lights in the ceiling, stripper poles covered in Meth whores, one hundred televisions with every sport imagineable, and the seriously awesome bathrooms you see here.
First of all, considering the average weight of the patrons (either farm-fed or very very thin) only one kind is fitting in this bathroom!
Appparently, according to one of the thinner patrons, there are no locks on the doors so the secret rolling of joints is less easy to accomplish, although it didn't seem to stop the chick from doing it.
This place is awesome, I mean just check out the art. It's so avant-garde that some creature has clearly lived it's whole life there on the bottom right hand corner, died at least five years ago, dried up, and hangs from it's own guts and webs, just blowing in the wind.
The men, in athe obvious spirit of an under-the-radar gambling, gun wearing, skoal sucking, small town ego trip get Clint Eastwood.
Once you walk two steps into the ladies' side, you notice in horror the well used and tired toilet plunger that doesn't even give a crap about hiding anymore, next to the Early-American-Horrid brown sink from 19-0h-shit.
Then, if you have a choice, which if you're drinking in this bar is questionable, you must decide between the stall with the whole door, or the one with swinging saloon doors. It doesn't really matter, did I mention no locks?
But the piece-de-resistance is definitely the ingenious toilet paper holding system. Of course it's on a pole!! You can't steal a roll, hell you can hardly even tear the damn paper off because its behind you, four feet above your head.
Despite the alarming state of where you are required by necessity to expose your privates, not to be confused by the rest of the place where it happens in vomit inducing, voluntary frequency, there are great times to be had. There is always unique entertainment, such as the ever present lesbian plus size catfight slash rubdown sessions, the loud swaggering debates between drunken pool leaguers over who sucks what and when, and occasionally a band.
For me, I avoid this place alltogether, unless I am out in support of a pool leaguer. And have a babysitter, which is as rare as a dirty martini in this town. My bar of choice is nine miles out of town in a two hundred year old Methodist church......where the cook is somewhat famous for the old days, the patrons are old-timers, rednecks, and fat chicks, but the atmosphere is friendly, the decor is dark and homey, and the bathrooms are clean. And the best part is, the restrooms have chalkboards in them where I, and anyone else worth their salt, can express their infatuation with the cook.....and what self-respecting, morally questionable drunk wouldn't like getting liquored up in church?! My kinda place, just sayin'.
