Putrid Poetics

If you have ever watched a YouTube video and read the comments below, you know that the average user’s IQ hovers somewhere between 4 and 5, well within the severely handicapped range (maybe a little higher). Commenting on absolutely everything you read, watch, taste, buy, do via the internet is an interesting cultural phenomenon, and I often receive emails urging me to do just that. I find these very offensive. Shouldn’t I be compensated for helping you to promote or analyze your products? And if I got ripped off, why would I want to announce it to the internet world?

My personal preference has always been for the internet comment’s ancestor, bathroom graffiti. Years before WiFi, the voiceless of society would resort to scribbling on stall walls in order to be heard. What better place to force others to read what you have to say? Except for the public-bathroom-phobia crowd, you’re likely to get a pretty diverse audience. If you’re like me, you might be wondering where the stall scribblers find their inspiration. Does the sudden urge to share their favorite limerick suddenly come over them, and they just happen to have a Sharpie with them in the stall?

The scariest thing is that much of it is probably premeditated. I can just imagine a mischievous sophomore, in his dark dorm alone on a Friday night giggling uncontrollably, joyously, having finally found the perfect quip about the Taco Bell runs. Early the next day our Rembrandt of the restroom, our giant of the john, this Baudelaire of the bathroom (that’s probably enough) sets out with the appropriate markers and pencils, carrying back-ups just in case, and enters the predetermined stall. Once in place, he must choose his canvas, execute his design, and, well, do his business.

The complete lack of affirmation is the tough thing for these toilers of the toilet seat. Sure a couple of weeks later, a fellow scribbler might have drawn a small arrow with the message “that’s retarded” or “I hate you,”- if they’re nice- but as the days continue the ink progressively fades, and one day the janitor comes by with an industrial-strength cleaner and effaces the message. And the voice, once so vibrant, is silenced forever.