“Oh, The Places You’ll Go!”, Pt. 4: The Kids…takes a victory lap

It’s been awhile since we did this shit, hasn’t it?

Well, it’s high time that we fixed that, huh?

For the uninitiated, “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” is a series of posts dedicated to the fine art that is public pooing.

You can see previous entries and explanations of C.R.A.P. in the right-hand margin.

I know, I know; it’s a lot of shit.


Let’s do this.

And now, onward…..to victory!


Take a look at Triumph's "Gauntlet of Shame"

Ever find yourself wandering through the backstreets and tramp alleys of Old City broke-down and beaten? Just utterly defeated? Need a little pick-me-up to get back to your winning ways?

The Kids…fully endorses Triumph Brewery, located at 117 Chestnut Street down in Old City Philadelphia.

Triumph Brewery is part of a chain of breweries in the area (there’s another one near-by in Princeton, a place I’d love to shit on). It’s one of those upscale bars that make people feel cool about getting (semi-)wasted on $7 beers.

It’s also the home of “in-house” brewed beers with kooky names Old Honey Wheat, Pale Ale Devil and like Memphis Titmonger.

Last time I was there, I had this one called a Yuengling. Crazy!

But really, the staff there takes great pride in describing the types of beers and flavors that Triumph offers.


Sure, not a lot of head, but we're more concerned with ass at this bar anyway. Your ass.

Since I was there for “business” (reporting for C.R.A.P.) and not “pleasure” (getting drunk and punching yuppies), I said, “give me your finest ale that will provoke mud butt, please”.

I had the Titmonger.

And from therea review was born! Huzzah!

Cleanliness: The bathrooms at Triumph Brewery were a wonder to behold. I’ve never felt uncomfortable making my own “micro-brews” in there. The bathroom toilets come equipped with ass-bibs (bibbed for your pleasure), but on a good night, you don’t really need them, and really, the stall is so opulent, you might want to wear one out of mere formality. It’s like taking a dueling pistol, walking ten paces and shooting.

Inside there’s also a teeny, tiny little sink for scrubing your hands nice and clean after your “fermentation process”. As an added bonus, the liquid soap in my particular “shat vat”  had the sweet-smelling aroma of something woodsy and refreshing. Plus, with it being a bar, you’d think there would be the greater instance of mis-pees and leftover logs, but there’s something in the air at Triumph–I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a bad “landing strip” for my cheeks. Something’s slightly amiss here, methinks, however, clean is clean, so…..Hooray! +8

Remoteness: Triumph‘s bathrooms are located in the left-hand corner of the lower level (the main floor). Going back there is sort of like being lead to a chic opium den. It’s curved away from the floor seating and opens into a low-lit area with single-service, all-purpose stalls lining the walls. Each stall is almost eerily-lit with frost-glass doors and nice door handles that read “Engaged” or “Vacant”. They’re like really expensive Port-a-Johns.

To boot (or, poop), the stalls are floor-to-ceiling spaces, so there’s no real concern for tapping toes and belting out your best beer-battered logs. And I think there’s a nice added bonus that, since it’s a bar, and a trendy one, hip, Top-40 style music is blaring the whole time, and if you’re like me, if you’ve always dreamed of shitting on The Black Eyed Peas or Katy Perry, this is about as close as you’re going to get. Big Girls may not Cry, but they sure can Crap here.

So get ahead, shorty, get low, low,  low, low.

Bravo! +8


Straight out the opium den and right into a throng of your closest, hottest, drunkest, strangers!

Access: As I’ve stated before, the stalls are to die for; they’re small and exquisite, like staying in a Japanese hotel room. They’re a little cramped, but you’ll quickly get over that once you see the accoutrements: a quiet stall with music piping in overhead,  a tiny sink and a trash receptacle. It’s great. And since there’s so many stalls, I’ve rarely had to wait more than half a verse of “Rehab” before getting into a stall myself.

Stepping into one for the first time a year ago, when my latch clicked from “Vacant” to “Engaged” I looked upon my throne, wept, and said, “Oh Triumph, ‘I do’–you had me at ‘Engaged'”.  And once you’re done and you re-emerge from the opium den, it’s like you’re suddenly attending your “coming out” party, like on My Super Sweet 16

  • All your friends are here!
  • There’s music!
  • And hot people!
  • And there’s your mother in the corner, crying because her baby’s all grown-up, and drunk and naked.


Punch Yuppies! +8

Privacy: By now you’ve read my ditty on the stalls, and the overhead music (great so that no one hears your “London Bridge” falling down). A truly great setup overall. And yet here’s where I think Triumph must lose some points.

Let me set the scene: I’m sitting there, bib in place, humming along to “Swagger Like Us” when I realized how truly alone I was. It was a little unsettling. I suddenly felt boxed in.


The stalls are private, yeah, but they come with a price: YOUR SOUL.

It was then that I realized that the stall is almost like a panic room, a la the Jodie Foster’s movie.

I suddenly knew why the caged butt sings.

I let out a nervous fart.

And then there was the voice: “That’s right, take your dooty, dirty boy”. What?


And then, “Now let’s take off some of those clothes.” Huh?

As I stood at the mirror and washed my hands in the sink, I heard “Go ahead, touch yourself. Slut.” WTF?

Granted, I’d had 3-4 Titmongers by then, but still, something was clearly awry there.  +6

Still, Triumph Brewery i’s a place that combines the high prices of a metropolis, with the avante-garde butt quarters of a Grammy after-party. Excelsior!

Total C.R.A.P SCORE: 30


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