Legends of the Stall

This sign, essentially asking people not to put the large rolls of toilet paper on the floor, appeared in the bathroom stall of the women's room at SFR sometime over the last few days. I really wish I'd documented the anonymous missives that have appeared over the years in our bathroom. They are quite extraordinary for their wit and pique. This particular bathroom stall is more prone to them than the other, because one faces the door when, you know, sitting. This stall also is responsible for the knife-fight-like scar on my arm. It's kind of a cramped stall and several years ago I managed, upon exiting it, to become impaled on the door hook (to this day I don't understand how I managed this) and was actually flung, at high velocity, with my arm still hooked on the hook, into the facing mirror. It was quite traumatic. I practically needed stitches. And an ice pack. And therapy.
I actually think the best way to start a revolution would be through bathroom missives—it's an ideal venue to force people to read things. When I was in college, someone anonymously posted the ee cummings poem, "The Boys I Mean" inside all the bathroom stalls at St. John's. Well, no one is going to go around ripping down poems, right? (Actually I'm sure plenty of people would rip down poems, but I wouldn't). So I inadvertently memorized the poem and had it stuck in my head day and night (downside of a selective photographic memory). Finally, to exorcize it, I wrote a response, called The Boys I Mean (that "I" is supposed to be italicized, but it's not showing up. The Internet hates me). This poem ended up in in this anthology and, subsequently, all over the Internet. In fact, if you google me you will find this poem in spades. (Yes, I have googled myself. I am stalking myself until someone better comes along). Anyway, the point of all this is that you never know what will come out of quality time spent in a bathroom stall with good reading material.