A helpful reader points out:
You omitted the web motherlode of bathroom graffiti: “notes from the stall“
A few photos from that tumblr are above. A dozen more readers submit their own examples of latrinalia:
My very favorite bathroom graffiti was seen in a women’s room in a bar on 6th street in Austin in about 1976 or so. Someone wrote “My mother made me a lesbian.” Below that, in another ink and hand: “If I get her the material, will she make me one too?”
I laughed then and I laugh now.
I’m so glad to have a Dish thread to share this with. It’s one of my fondest memories of my time at UCLA when I was working on my MS in Computer Science. This was written on one of the stalls in the women’s restroom in Boelter Hall, the engineering building:
A mathematician named Paul
Had a hexadronical ball.
The cube of its weight
Plus his pecker times eight
Is his phone number, give him a call.
My favorite piece of graffiti yet: “I’ll see you in the Eighth Circle of Hell, Counselor!” From the bathrooms of the Law School of the University of Chicago. (The Eighth Circle is the Circle of Fraud, of course.)
Well of course. Back to the peckers:
Found in the bathroom of Strawbridge&Clothiers, Neshaminey Mall, early 1970s:
I’m nine inches long and four inches round. Are you interested?
Fascinated. How big is your dick?
Seen above a urinal in a Jr. High 60 years ago: “The future of America is in your hands.”
Heh. Another updates a previous example:
In response to one of your readers: no, no, NO! The correct verse is “Here I am all broken hearted, tried to shit but only farted!”
It’s all downhill from there:
Here’s my all-time favorite, which appeared as a critique below a long string of back-and-forth commentary when I was an undergraduate:
Men who write on bathroom walls roll their turds in little balls.
And those who read these bits of wit can go and eat these balls of shit.
From a rest area in Oklahoma, ten years ago: “here I sit, cheeks a flexin’, just gave birth to another Texan.”
Oh snap. Another:
I was living in Grunge-era Seattle when I went to a bar in town called The Comet. Written on the bathroom wall: “Smells like teen urine.”
From an Irish-American ginmill in the Bronx, many years ago: “Paddy, how many times do I have to tell you? Cunnilingus is not the name of an airline”.
Here’s something I read decades ago:
She offered her honor
I honored her offer
And all night long
It was honor and offer.
One more for now:
Seen at the Connor Byrne Pub in Seattle: “I fucked your mother”. Underneath, in different handwriting: “You’re drunk, Dad. Go home.”