The Newest Testament (written on various stall walls)
Nourishing your piety in college can be challenging because drinking excessively has never been that compatible with standard religious doctrine. Many university students have this habit of transforming their college years into a half-decade of unbridled indulgence during which spirituality and moral values decay as fast as half-eaten apples. Though there are perks to the perpetual-party-lifestyle, being spiritually impoverished in conjunction with being drunk all the time can lead to emotional distress and, worse, erectile dysfunction.
There is a solution to this problem, and, fear not, it does not involve moderation or church attendance. There is a new scripture that will revitalize your spiritual vigor, and it’s scattered on bathroom stall walls around town. My father once told me that the best time to achieve spiritual clarity is in the midst of carrying out bodily functions. I must say he’s right. Releasing the weight of waste sojourning in your bowels and bladder allows you to feel physically and spiritually lighter, enabling you to engage in celestial reflection.
One night, I was pissing in a bar urinal, morosely reflecting on both my agnosticism and my mortality when I spotted something sharpied on the wall near the flush handle: All you need is love, and love ain’t nothing but sex misspelled. I recognized this line as a hybrid of Beatles lyrics and the title of a short story collection by Harlan Ellison. Nevertheless I adopted the cut-and-paste epigram as my own and became a man slut. Having emotionless sex is yet another bodily function that better enables me to engage in celestial reflection.
Ever since that night, I’ve been finding profound stall wall graffiti that is relevant to my life. The serendipity of being driven to public restrooms by sudden impulses to shit and consequently absorbing life lessons has spawned in me a sturdy faith in God. The stall wall is like a forum where local prophets can self-publish their revelations for wayfaring souls. Every time I make a deposit in a public restroom, I feel like Robert Langdon, the symbologist from Da Vinci Code, deciphering cryptic messages. I apply these messages to my life and reap the benefits.
Last week, I was in a Wendy’s restroom when I read stall wall instructions purportedly by Carlo the Hammer: when striking an opponent, chiefly use the knuckles at the base of your index and middle fingers to avoid a boxer’s fracture. This proved to be vital information as I left the stall and was violently accosted by my drug dealer. Yesterday, I was at a Mexican restaurant with my friend. Recalling a specific prophecy I had seen at Taco Bell, I advised my friend against ordering his default dish, carne deshebrada. He did not heed my warning; as a result he contracted E. coli. By embracing the wisdom within the stalls of fortune, I am protected from bodily harm and I am reminded that there is, indeed, a supernatural force watching over me.
See, the legitimacy I place on any religion is directly correlated with how its fundamental guidelines benefit me in my day to day life. The holy bible never seemed to work for me, not only because it does not condone my drinking habit or my sexcapades with strangers, but also because the bible never prevented me from having the living structure beat out of my face. If I continue turning the other cheek, my already-deviated septum will be irreparable. If I continue applying the golden rule to my social interactions, I will continue to treat strangers to unprompted scalp massages; this has earned me nothing but further face damage (I am particularly fond of surprise scalp massages from people I don’t know, but I have learned through trial and error that this is an eccentricity that is more or less exclusive to me).
As it stands, I am a firm believer that divinely inspired prophets deface public property to convey sacred advice. I’ve read countless revelations; like an eightball is 3.5 grams rather than 2.8 and that the Ark of the Covenant is in Detroit. I plan on capitalizing on that someday. The ark, I mean. I found out Diana Hussman, the president of the Central Valley Women’s Alliance lives under the floorboards of Road House. The stall walls have encouraged me to resist authority, suck dick, and call upon Jesus, because supposedly he owes $5 to someone who takes classes in Park Hall. I recommend any Athenian with a drinking problem and spiritual autism to find emotional sanctuary in stall wall scripture. (published in Rough Draft)