For decades, I’ve traveled and drunk almost everywhere. I’ve been to the wineries out in Sonoma, the dives up in Boston, hell, even those fairground bars they have there in the middle. And with Sharpie after endless Sharpie, I’ve etched my “Cool S” on the bathroom wall of every single one of them. (Some of my other ubiquitous work is “Call Your Mom” and “Single-Line, Semi-Erect Penis and Balls, With Hair Sprigs.”)
Nothing, absolutely nothing, though, is more perfect, more important, than my “Cool S.” I’ve sacrificed lovers, a family, any illusions of a normal life, all in the service of my art.
Then, the darkness came.
The neon stopped humming.
This has all been very hard for me. This must be how Galileo felt, how Bo Jackson felt, forced out of their fields at the peak of their primes. And for Bo, it was two fields. Fucking two.
I was dejected for a few weeks. I put away my Sharpie, and stared out the window of my apartment, too sad even to draw my classic “Cartoony Cleavage” in the condensation fogging up the glass. It was depressing.
Then, I thought about my fans and how lost they would be without my singular artistic vision to accompany them. I couldn’t imagine a life without purpose, without the spiritual guidance of my “Cool S.” So, I dug out my Sharpie and for the last few months, I’ve been trying to maintain my form.
My apartment walls are covered floor to ceiling in the fine, impeccable “Cool S” after impeccable “Cool S”. There are thousands, thick enough to look like wallpaper when you are staggeringly drunk, which, I’ve found, is the most opportune time to produce my work.
I’ve also been practicing my slightly larger ones on the porcelain tile canvas waiting for me at my local Big Lots. What is Big Lots, exactly? A furniture store that also sells inflatable yard Santas and Coconut LaCroix? I’m really not sure, but when you find yourself there, check out my limited-edition, pandemic-era “Cool S” in the bathroom after the sudden urge to shit inevitably hits you as you step into the entrance of Big Lots.
Honestly, the Midwest saved me. The bars have been open there for months, because my fans, those loveable S-Heads, clamored for it. They even lined up their cars and honked. Then they stormed the steps of their legislatures to allow my work to be displayed again. That sure made me proud.
I shook off the rust first in a port-a-potty outside of a cattle sale in Iowa. Then it was down to the out-of-order bathroom of a NASCAR bar in Arkansas. And you can bet your ass I was in the sole-functioning toilet on the main drag of the motorcycle rally in Sturgis.
Most of it was touch-up work. While Sharpie makes a fine, long-lasting product, some had been unjustly and inconceivably removed in the months of darkness. All my practicing has paid off, though. My “Cool S” is as good as ever. Maybe even better.
I’ve recently traveled to the college towns, hoping for my art to reach a new, impressionable audience. Really, like each of us, I’m trying to achieve immortality.
And, I believe my “Cool S” is the answer.
Now, thanks to a number of things—namely algorithmic agents of misinformation, a general and festering distrust of science, and the new Dozen Double Crunch Shrimp at Applebee’s—my work will never die.
And with it, neither will I.
So rest assured, I’m back and better than ever, reminding you, as always: IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, BE A SWEETIE AND WIPE THE SEATY.