Category Archives: C.R.A.P.

“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: Behind the Iron Curtain

Man, these C.R.A.P.’s are getting further and further apart, aren’t they?

Well, we’ll have to make sure we change that, won’t we?

You bet your ass we do.

Pat's to the Sofitel's Geno's

So, if you’re unfamiliar with these entries, the C.R.A.P. is a detailed review of public places to take a dump here in the City of Brotherly Love and United Hatred for McNabb (and occasionally elsewhere) and is reviewed according to several specific criteria: Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access, Privacy. All of which of course equals “C.R.A.P.”.

Some people find the categories a little redundant; they say, “hey Kids, aren’t access and remoteness sort of the same?”, to which I usually say, “hey, go write your own shit, Dear Abby; I’ll handle mine”.

As the kids (not to be confused with The Kids) say: do you.

And so, without further ado-doo, the latest C.R.A.P.

The Kids Don’t Get It Sends You Some Shit From Hotel Palomar, With Love

Turn the wrong faucet on and LAVA COMES

The Hotel Palomar is pretty Smurfing ballsy. They opened their swank hotel right across the street from the King of C.R.A.P. the Hotel Sofitel. When I first saw the glossy doors of the Hotel Palomar open for business, I knew it’d be trouble for my ass. These two places co-existing on the exact same block, mere feet from each other, was like having Pat’s and Geno’s for your ass suddenly open. Most times when I’m downtown, I’ve still opted for Hotel Sofitel; at this point, I go there so often the hotel staff has hand towels waiting for me once I’m done.

But on this fateful day, I took the plunge(r) and headed to Hotel Palomar. With a bellyful of butt batter, I sidled up to the new hotel, which looks impressively impregnable from the outside. Fortunately, I’ve impregnated a lot of places in the past.

Wait, what?

Your mission should you choose to accept it? To do the same. In the meantime, let’s take a look at what I learned inside. Armed with a spy camera (my Palm Pre) and this morning’s Starbucks multi-grain bagel and grande hot chocolate, Agent 002 was ready for her majestry’s service.

  • Cleanliness: The Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms were pretty spiffy. The stalls are all painted a dark blue, and the floor and the walls are adorned with blue tile. The whole place feels like a psychological experiment; it’s as if the blue color is dark and foreboding enough to make you spill your country’s most guarded secrets and last night’s turkey chili with almost hypnotic ease.To add to this intrigue, two other details curiously stood out:

"Think Nothing But Blue Skies": It's the "think baseball, grandmother" of pooping!

Stalls, prepared to be classified as "K.I.A."

Observation #1: immediately inside the restroom wall was a huge framed picture with the phrase “Think Nothing But Blue Skies” repeated over and over again (see the adjacent picture). As I snapped a series of pics of the frame, I stared at it several times, and before I knew it I was not only reciting my social security number, but I was so relaxed, I was already shitting on the floor. Impressive.

Observation #2: the entire time I was in there, Euro techno music was thumping overhead through hidden speakers. Oddly enough, this wasn’t that intrusive, but certainly added to the “Euro undercover mission” vibe I was feeling.

I stopped in the middle of the restroom and took stock: 3 toilet stalls to the right, about 3 urinals lining the left wall, and then a handicap-accessible toilet far in the back. The sinks were bone-white with a sloped basin and these cute little trapdoors located under the faucet that seemed to catch the water. The whole thing was very zen-like. I ceremoniously washed my hands before stepping into the stall to remove my trousers. I’ve got a license to kill, and I aim to use it before it’s revoked (again). +10

  • Remoteness: Where’s these bathrooms located, right? I mean, if it was in the lair of say, Dr. No, it’d be located through some sort of exotic venereal-disease-infested grotto like at the Playboy mansion. Here though, the public restrooms are located on the 2nd floor (clever birds) and tucked away off a hallway that resembled the ‘auction house’ in Taken–they were incredibly dark and dimly lit, with dark wood walls and, I’m sure, with a touch of a panel, a room would reveal itself that would allow you to bid on young chicks like they were concert tickets on eBay. As I walked down the hall, I occasionally passed Palomar staff, many of whom stopped eying me suspiciously once I affected my best British accent and said, “Washroom? It would appear that one of the Czech-area hookers I’m bidding on has spat upon my knickers.” With a click of a heel to the right, I walked down the hall and entered the bathroom.+8

    The Man-sittin' Project

  • Access: It’s not easy getting to the restrooms. It’s downright intimidating even. Even under my prepared guise (Name: Truman America. Age: 128. Occupation: Arts importer/exporter. Sex: Lots Marital Status: Delayed.) I found that despite my years of previous restroom infiltration, this one made me sweat it out a bit. Hotel Palomar isn’t intuitively laid out; there’s a bar/restaurant to your right, a check-in desk up to the left, and a yawning hallway ahead of you that leads to elevators and a shark pit I think. This process would be much, much easier with the aid of a Bond girl with a scene appropriate name like “Delores Brownbottom”, or “Candy Deucedropper”. I shut my eyes at one point and strode forward with an icy resolve. My secret? blueskiesblueskiesblueskiesblueskies. +6
  • Privacy:Once again, with the removed location, the sound-dampening oak walls, and the ink-blot test blue stalls, the Hotel Palomar’s bathrooms are a secret ass-gent’s ideal HQ. I felt like I could not only take the “silencer” off my butt when I let loose, I probably could have also contacted M back at HQ and told her of my progress thus far. I’ve actually been to the Hotel Palomar 3x, and each time I’ve been pleasantly surprised to see how empty the bathrooms are every time. After awhile you even start to fall into the groove of the place; I sat as I shat and dreamed of racing through halls with Candi Deucedropper trying to locate toilet paper, or Russian bomb blueprints  (or maybe Russian bomb blueprints printed on toilet paper?) while toe-tapping to the overhead tune of “This This THIS Is For the ReVolUtiOn” by that hit group “Progrom”.

    Agent, you are cleared to use lethal force!

But I mean, f-ck man, after awhile I just wanted to boogie, so at some point, with a wipe (shaken, not stirred) and a whistle, I got up and waltzed back into the bright, searing Philadelphia sun.+8
  • Total C.R.A.P. Score: 32
The only drawback I could find? Now whenever I hear the phrase “blue skies” I immediately shit myself.

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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: Congress is in!

Man, this shit’s been gone for a minute, hasn’t it?

And I’m sorry; I’m sure there have been tons of you wandering and waddling the streets of America with so much Chipotle’ and 5-Guys in you that it’s been muy, muy uncomfortable.

Well, take heart: C.R.A.P. is back.

And this time it’s personal.

For those not in the nose, C.R.A.P. is The Kids running breakdown, shakedown, brown-down of places to poop.

Lawd a'mercy!

Destinations to dookie.

Shelters to shit.

Locales to log.

Each place has been butt-tested by yours truly, and then recorded back here for you to use with discretion.

Each place is rated on 4 categories: Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access, and Privacy.  Together they form the Voltron of criteria, C.R.A.P.

One day I’d like to Freaky Friday this jawn and get someone else’s full C.R.A.P. report (any takers?) on a place that I’ve already covered.

But in the meantime, you’re stuck with me. And this time I’m reviewing a restroom I used on my post-marital vacation.

The place: Congress Hall

The location: Cape May, NJ

The ass: mine.

Let’s do this.

The Kids Don’t Get It Presents: Filibustering the Bowl at Congress Hall

Congress Hall is the lush, stately hotel located in the heart of Cape May, NJ–a Jersey shore town home to old people, advanced age people, geriatrics and the dead. It’s a quiet, idyllic place that boldly stands out amongst the other hotels that offer only unclean swimming pools, H1N1 burgers, guests with ill-fitting t-shirts and pubes in the sink. Congress Hall is a sprawling, yellow mansion with about a gazillion rooms in it. Imagine the hotel that ‘The Shining’ took place in, only with sand and adult diapers.

During our stay last September, one of the few times we ventured out of the room I found myself in need to do the deed. And so, while eating at the hotel restaurant, I excused myself to the restroom.

Oh; it should be noted that Congress Hall was originally a plantation home.

Valet drivers waiting to park it for you!

Needless to say, I couldn’t wait to shit all over this place.

This is my review.

Cleanliness: If you’re like me, you’re probably wondering, “How clean can a place be when its history is steeped in slavery?”–this is a similar question that I ask myself when I’m watching BET, too. Anyway, the restroom at CH was decidedly of a mixed-bag sort of fair. I mean, first of all, the bathroom is located on the basement floor, something I never care for.

Me at Congress Hall: Pardon me, but could you direct me to the bathro–

Congress Hall Restaurant Hostess: –what are you doing here on the main floor? Didn’t I tell you to finish toothbrush cleaning Room 247? Did you lose your toothbrush again, boy? If so, it’s coming out of your pay, which is in toothbrushes.

Me at Congress Hall: No, I’m a guest here. I need to use the bathroom. Where is it?

Congress Hall Restaurant Hostess: My apologies ‘sir’. Why don’t you merely soil yourself like the rest of our patrons here at Congress Hall? That way, while you’re napping at your dining table, a Congress Hall staffer can come around and cleanse your soiled britches

When they woke up, they invited us to the key party in their room

with a gentle toothbrush-scrub. The circular motions applied to your taint will gradually awaken you from your slumber. Unless you’re dead. Which happens sometimes here. Or, you may use the bathroom downstairs in the basement.

(End scene)

And so, while I considered shitting on myself at my table, I ventured to the basement of Congress Hall to the bathroom. Once there, the stalls were decidedly drenched in that “damp, wet” look….you know, lots of wet sinks and dark-paneled stalls. The stalls were

Poster on Congress Hall bathroom stall

actually pretty clean–I mean, I still used an ass-bib, but I didn’t feel compelled to double ply the seat with it. Though at the same time, the stall that I chose had a floaty adrift in it, still wildly bobbing its head like it was riding the electric bull.

At the sinks, little pools of water were everywhere, and the faucet handles seemed to be constantly wet. But the mirrors were clean, though if you looked up in them while washing, you saw the spectres of slaves past standing behind you. +6 (I mean, of course it’s clean–they have servants!)

Remoteness: As previously mentioned, the bathrooms are located at the bottom level, weirdly located next to the Congress Hall Club called….’The Club’ or ‘The Room’–agh, it was something lame and flaccid like that. Anyway, the basement level is unsurprisingly dark and dank. But what made it stand out were worn-out signs that said things like, “tHiS wAy 2 FrEeDom” and “Undgrd RR sTarTs heRe” . Odd. What I liked about it was that descending the dark stairs made me feel more like Batman instead of say, Harriet Tubman. Plus, with it being the same locale as the club ‘The Club’, no one knows whether you’re going down to boogie or boogie-ing on down to get brown. Congress is in! Cut-off, which is good, but loses points for oppression. +4

Discreetly slipped to me by someone in housekeeping.

Access: Getting into the bathrooms was easy (turn left at the bottom for the shitter; turn right/go straight for shitty music and sand-blasted middle-aged NJers dancing to Buffet and Gaga). The only drawback? Since it’s so dark down there, you’re liable to step on a ‘sleeping’ old person or two here and there. As soon as I showed them my freedom papers, it was smooth sailing! +8

Privacy: Crispus Attucks was it quiet down there! Like a tomb, really. Even with the steady throb of “Poker Face” in the background, the bathrooms were quiet enough to hear a slave pin drop. The stalls had doors that, while not floor-length, were certainly low enough to feel enclosed or to discourage “uppity” house servants from scampering away from work. Says toilet: “….nobody knows the trouble I see…”, so go ahead and porkbarrel that sucker. +6

Final C.R.A.P. score: 24 points

There you have it, folks. The Congress Hall earns a respectable 24 points for its unique blend of deep-set isolation, Gaga music and Harriet Tubman wall carvings. Sadly, we’re making a slight change to the score, so:

Final C.R.A.P. score: 24 points

is now

Final C.R.A.P. score: 4 points

You know, for reparations.


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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”: The Love Edition

It’s been a long, long time since we dropped some log-language here at The Kids….

But it’s not been for lack of action.

Oh no.

I’ve been around town dropping “Easter eggs” pretty regularly.

Typically the places that I review are ones that I’d encourage you all to visit whenever you found yourself wandering the streets of Brotherly Love.

It’s sort of a “Frommer’s” for your Pooper.

A “Lonely Planet” for Uranus, if you will.

This edition of C.R.A.P. however is wedding-based.

I recently had the pleasure of attending the lovely wedding of Z &Z; they’re an adorable couple I’m quite fond of. Anyway, their very special day took place deep in the mountains of Eagles Mere, PA.

Not familiar with Eagles Mere, you say? Imagine your Nearest Big City.

Now take away the buildings.

Now take away the shops, save the weird craft store ones that you see at malls and wonder how they’re open still.

Now take away all  colored people (“people of color” sounds like science fiction to me, like Children of Men).

eagles mere

Only 10 more minutes until Colored People need to leave town! It's like New Years in this jawn.

What do you have left?

“The Shire” might be an initial guess, and it’d be accurate, but so would “Eagles Mere, PA”.

This outdoor wedding was on a picture-perfect day with lots of food, wine, cousins…and outdoor toilet?!

Let’s investigate, shall we?

The Kids Don’t Get It Gets Hitched To Some Shit

On that special day, the only things that matter are family, alcohol and someone keeping an eye on Uncle Harold and your kids. But you know what else matters? Crapping.

The Eagles Mere Wedding (or EMW) was an outdoor event. Not a real “camper” at heart, like any sheltered city/suburban kid, I quickly worry about the following when I’m outdoors:

  • looking any local in the eye for too long
  • where the nearest Fuddrucker’s/5 Guys is
  • whether or not it’s “horny season” for bears
  • where I can relieve myself after spotting a bear

This last item is of utmost importance. Weddings have 1. food 2. drink and 3. dancing and typically I don’t like to do 1 and 2 before doing 3; after all I don’t want to “Macarena” in the middle of the “Electric Slide”.

So what did the EMW have to offer? The fanciest outdoor port-a-johns my buttcheeks have ever seen? So while everyone else was tossing rice, I slipped away to drop some instead. And so, my once-in-a-lifetime chance to shit, EMW style.

Cleanliness: I don’t know about you, but when I hear the phrase “port-a-potty” I immediately think of Hershey syrup-stained toilet seats, hot piss and that blue Slurpee stuff that they put into the bottom that “masks” the odors and doubles as a Smurf-creating vat. Or something. Anyway, because of this, I was prepared for the worst, and by ‘the worst’ I mean ‘crabs’. So while everyone else admired the father-daughter dance, I went off to tango

Worst bridesmaids dresses ever.

Worst bridesmaids dresses ever.

with the toilet.

Inside there were flowers, hand-soap (real hand soap; not that scummy sex-organ fluid-like stuff you find in other restrooms), a mirror for single people to wonder what’s happening to their life and soft lighting so when you’re drunk you still think you look sober.

Anyway, I quickly walked to the back and, with a deep breath, I opened the stall door to find….cleanliness! It resembled one of those display bathrooms you see in Home Depot: all high-gloss and shine. As I unzipped and turned to drop down onto the seat, I paused and said, “If anyone objects to the union we’re about to create, let them speak now or forever hold my feces….”. No answer. Wedding on! +8


"You had me at 'Eagles Mere'."

Remoteness: Worried that you’ll have to say “I do-do” in front of a crowd of people at the EMW? No worries there, as the couple was savvy enough to have the bathrooms placed away from the action (that being the food, drink and any horny bears) and at the backside of the cabin-house where the reception took place. After saying hi/hellos to cousins, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, friends and caterers alike, I wiggled my way to the back where I found the uniquely-fancy port-a-johns majestically raised on steps. I don’t know if the EMW DJ planned on playing it, but I suddenly heard “Stairway to Heaven” playing in my head. With one look at the port-a-john, a tear rolled down my face as I muttered, “….you complete me”. +8

Access: Getting to the bathrooms was a cinch.  It’s in the back, so it was easy to get to (twss). With all the surrounding woodland creatures frolicking about, I sorta felt like Snow White. Unfortunately, I think I ate the Poison Apple, so I quickly felt like Snow Brown. Still, the woodland setting made for the most serene stroll; I started singing, “Going to the Port-a and I’m gonna get sti-i-i-inky….”. Birds landed on my shoulder. Squirrels ran around my ankles and taint. A horny bear sniffed my crotch. Or was that Uncle Harry? Either way, awesome. +8

Privacy: As I placed the seat-covering onto the toilet I said, “with this ass-bib, I thee wed”. At that point, I think I might’ve been the first to use it–I think everyone else was listening to some ‘speeches’ or something–so I once I finished, I ran out the port-a-john and waved my used toilet paper to the masses and yelled “Look, a virgin!”. Priceless. +8

Total C.R.A.P. score: 32 (on a port-a-john scale)

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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”, Pt. 5

My, my, my, looks who’s back: C.R.A.P.

It’s your favorite story about butt-glory.

Something to bring you up and mellow when you’re feeling down and brown (and yellow).

It’ll make you laugh til you spit, ’cause you’re readin’ about shit.

Spit out your soup ’cause we’re talkin’ about poop.

You got it.

Not familiar with the drill, Bill? Well, it’s simple: ever wander around town and think, “screw going into H&M right now; I need to do a little S&M with the nearest toilet”.

You gotta dash to unload your ass and when you’re out and about in the city (of Philadelphia, at least), you need somewhere to handle your business.

And if you’re like me, you’re not setting up your tee-pee to T.P. just anywhere, and so The Kids…presents the latest installment of C.R.A.P.–where to go or not go, when your cheeks need a little Brotherly Love.


Let’s do this.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you……New Deck Tavern!new-deck-tavern

Allow me to set the scene for you. It’s Saturday night. We’ve just left a med-school parody show (don’t ask) and for most of the night, my butt was so full it felt like The Great Pumpkin from the Charlie Brown Halloween Special.

Periodically it’d gurgle something to me initially calmly (“hey man, uh, anytime you want to do this, I’m ready”) to agitated (“seriously dude, I’m startin’ to sweat here”) to downright despondent (“oh batman, pull the car over I’m gonna hurl”).

So by the time that I finally got out of the show it was “go” time. Fortunately we were all hungry (note: having an empty stomach while also having a full ass is sorta like rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time) so we headed over to New Deck Tavern, a pub over in West Philly, pretty close to Penn. Once we got seated, I went to get seated. Here’s the review.

Cleanliness: Full disclosure: I knew that I was attempting to dump at a bar, so yes, I knew that the odds were against me. Particularly since it was Saturday night too. And it was after 3pm so the drinkers were probably out. Still, I thought, it was only 9pm, so maybe, just maybe the bathroom wouldn’t be shittinated (new word) just yet. Um, no. The bathroom in New Deck was a complete shitshow. Pale, dank-looking tiles on the floor, sweaty wooden stall doors, and, somehow always

Pitt and Freeman lose their heads looking for a place to take a dump.

Pitt and Freeman lose their heads looking for a place to take a dump.

the worst to me, wet, sploshy sinks. I gingerly pushed open stall door #1 (there’s only 2 there) and felt like I’d just opened Brad Pitt’s mail in Se7en. I gasped. No, really, I gasped. Don’t people cry when they do things like this to a toilet? I’m always mystified by such occurrences. It’s like the Tasmanian Devil came in after having chili. And lemonade. And a banana sundae. With corn bits. The stall did include an ass-bib, but clearly whoever had come through there before me must’ve mistaken it for a rib-bib. +2

Remoteness: The bathrooms at New Deck are located on a basement level like many bars are here in Philly. They’re perfect for making discreet phone calls, getting drunken handjobs and cigarrette machines. There’s even a payphone down there too. And it’s dimly lit so that the more imaginative bar patron can pretend that they’re entering Bruce Wayne’s secret lair instead of really descending into somewhere scarier, like say the backroom where they kept the gimp in Pulp Fiction. But still, you can slip in and slip out of there without anyone really noticing (twss). +6

Access: Well, getting aroundNew Deck on a Saturday night was relatively easy, though I’m guessing a lot of that has to do with the fact that the bar sucks. Seriously; one half of the bar was

"....I see poo-stains."

"....I see poo-stains."

playing Top 4o music, while the other half of the bar had TV’s playing Cold Case and The Ghost Whisperer on CBS. I haven’t seen that many mixed signals since The Crying Game. Anyway, I think getting to the bathroom there is relatively easy, mainly because:

  • most people are urinating on their bar stool already
  • “Farouk” and “Bones”, New Deck’s two ‘bouncers’ there that night, were too busy checking IDs and copping feels while talking to each other through headsets. Dude, he’s like right next to you. Stop.
  • despite the actually pretty good music being played, no one was dancing. Everyone was too busy figuring out who just got ghost whispered or something. So the floor was basically clear.

So there’s no security, no key to ask for and no real barriers to you slipping off to the bathroom. It’s as easy as that. So it does at least get points for that. Unless of course Farouk stops you. +6

Privacy: Ok, so truth be told, the stalls have complete shut-in capability. With the wooden doors and a secure sliding lock mechanism, it was, in theory, one of the most secure dump spots you’ll see. In theory. In reality though, the stalls felt like I was on a pirate ship; cranky, creaky wet wooden walls all around you, and a guy in the next stall sounding like he was suffering from scurvy. On some of the graffiti’ed walls, there were even hash-marks either noting the number of times  someone had played Mutiny on the Booty in that particular stall, or the number of ass-bibs

"Sure, this'll get you past Farouk, but prepare yourself to walk the stank, missy."

"Sure, this'll get you past Farouk, but prepare yourself to walk the stank, missy."

required to sit down. But yeah; no one’s going to see you making the stall your own personal poop deck. The stalls leave only a razor’s edge worth of vision to see through; at one point someone knocked as I considered hovering my ass over the seat, and so caught up in the pirate-ship feel was I, that when I squinted with one eye into the crack I said “Leave me be, ya scally-wag, or I’ll run you through with my poo and send ya ta Davey Jones’ locker!”. And then I shat myself. +4

Total C.R.A.P. score: 18

So there she blows you have it, friends. Stay away from the New Deck unless you’re ok with getting bottom of the deck quality. Set your sails for calmer waters, matey!

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“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… 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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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go!”, Pt. 3

It’s been awhile (kinda) so it’s time for another installment of C.R.A.P. This time, we’re boldly going to a place The Kids… shit has not gone before.

New to C.R.A.P.? It’s quite simple, really. This little on-going feature is all about where to squat when you’re in a jam and gotta drop some butt-Spam. Some Philadelphia places to go when your ass has got a question and you need to give it an Answer. When you’re suddenly McNabbed with the need to run a poot-leg play. You get it.

I rank these places on an easy-to-use scale based on Cleanliness, Remoteness, Access and Privacy–all the essential ingredients for public poos.


"Ass-bibs"? Where we're going, we don't NEED ass-bibs.


Let’s do this.

Need to make a ‘deposit’ downtown?

Got a little extra ‘dough’ you want to dump?

With these hard economic times that we’re in, it’s only fitt-ING that our first review is for the ING Cafe’ in downtown Philly on the corner of 17th and Walnut. The ING Cafe’ stands out because it looks like someone’s combined an Orange Julius with a Sharper Image store. It’s futuristic insides is like being in the leisure deck on The Enterprise–there’s an expansive, ‘futuristic’ feel to the place that no other place in the city really captures. Plus, when I was there, I was waited on a black girl that I decided to call “Guinan”. There’s pods for checking email and wireless access (more on that) too while you sip, save and shit.

So how’s the market look for crapping?

Let’s take a look.


You'll need an ass-cess card to do that here, Mr. Man.

Cleanliness: ING’s bathrooms are crispy-clean. I mean honestly, a place where you can eat blueberry muffins, drink coffee and look at your financial state is bound to make people shit their pants a lot, right? Not so here. When I walked in, I was amazed–floored even–by the cleanliness of the men’s room. I was convinced that only robots shat in this place. It was spotless. I really can’t stress how amazed I was. It was so clean in there, I considered dropping a load in my pants instead. +8

Remoteness: ING’s bathrooms are located at the back of the Cafe’. They are unassuming and sterile-looking whose frosty-colored, opaque doors could easily be mistaken for ‘droid storage units. What’s also great is that most people are so busy surfing Craigslist’s “Casual Encounters of the Trannie Kind ” they won’t notice or care that you’re slipping by to photon-torpedo the john. +8


Thanks to ING's accommodations, public-Wookie shitting is down 80%

Access: Well, true to Philadelphia’s own political system here, ING is sort of a “pay-to-play” gig. For example, if you’re going to use the wireless there, you have to purchase something at the cafe’ where they’ll give you a card that has an access code on it. This card’s good for about a 30min access to the internet, meaning that you’ve got to buy more stuff there to be on the internet longer. Sounds odd for a place that stresses savings, huh? Yeah, I think so too.

So, based on an “honor system” of sorts, you’re going to feel rather obligated (if you’re not an ING member, that is) to get something there, since their synthetic employees have mastered the art of “passive aggressive inquiry” about possible lay-abouts and doo-dooers there. If you’re bold of course (say your Perineum Falcon’s in danger of leaving an “ion trail” in your pants), you can just make a warp-speed beeline to the bathrooms, but for the rest of us, I’d suggest buying something.


"KAAAAAHHHHNNN!"--Kirk sets his ass-phaser to KILL.

In addition to that, because of it’s rather “austere” appearances, the ING Cafe’ subconsciously discourages vagrants from coming in there. There’s nowhere to hide in a place so brightly-lit and sparsely-deocrated place. While liberally in most things, I’m decidedly conservative to public poo-ing, meaning that unlike your local Barnes & Noble, you can get your stinkon without sharing a bathroom with a Klingon. Star-skeet Academy approved. +6

Privacy: They say in space, no one can hear you scream. I daresay that that’s the case for the ING’s space station C.R.A.P. utopia. It could be the large stalls (big enough for a Wookie dookie) and their hard-to-see through stall linings. It could be the cold, stark space itself which seems airy and sound-swallowing at the same time. I don’t know what it was, but I’ve been there twice, and each time I’ve felt comfortable to set my ass-phaser to “LOUD”. Impressively, I felt as though the sound was muffled by the frosted toilet stall: I was giddy. I’ve even tried the yelling following while on the toilet:

  • “One to beam!”
  • “The Force is strong with this one”.
  • “Doo or doo not; there is no try”

So if you’re in for a (butt)blaster-battle, you’re at the right place, Ensign. +8

Total C.R.A.P. Score: 30


Lt. Spock, reporting to the poop deck, Captain.

Shit long, and prosper.


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“Oh, the Places You’ll Go” Pt. 1(b)

This past Saturday, I attended a wedding at the hotel Sofitel. Sound familiar? It should. Hotel Sofitel is the blue ribbon, the prize pig, the Barack Obama of places to dump thus far according to The Kids Don’t Get It‘s rigorous, objective scoring system, C.R.A.P.

I was stupid excited when I heard that the ceremony was going to be there; I’d dropped about a schoolbus worth of kids at the pool at this establishment in the past while out shopping–now I was going to get to do this in a suit. I like to think that if my butt had hands, it would’ve clapped once it heard the news.


"It's poop and swirl; it's always poop and swirl"

As a matter of fact, when I read the location on the invitation, I looked over my shoulder down at Boris (that’s what I call my ass) and Boris looked back at me and we both nodded, It’s on.

For the next several weeks, the anticipation was almost murderous. You ever have an ex you haven’t seen in a long time get in touch with you? And then you set a date to meet back up? And the whole time you’re thinking about how good it was when you were together and that you wish that hoe didn’t lie to you and be off the pill and so ended up getting knocked up so you had to switch coasts for awhile and you symbolically start a new life as a missionary because missionary is what got you and that rotten trick in trouble in the first place but know she wants to see you again and you’re hoping that when you do it this time it’ll feel as good as the first time you two did it and you taped it and swore you’d never look at it again but then sometimes you hear people talk about the R. Kelly tape and you think about rummaging through some trash to find it again and say to your friends “yeah, but check this out” because it was that good?


Hotel Sofitel: White Russian's at the bar, brown rushin' at the john.

That’s what it was like to hear that the wedding was going to be at Sofitel. Kinda.

Anyway, once the wedding date rolled around, I was prepared. By then, I’d researched the floor plan of Sofitel and knew all the places to hit. That night, I felt like Tom Cruise in the opening ballroom scene in Mission Impossible –as I worked the floor; I made small talk with friends and family members, grabbed a few appetizers, casually sipped on drinks, the whole time fantasizing about what I’d do to the bathroom.


"Only 4 more chicken fingers til we reach our goal!"

You know those fundraiser thermometers outside of churches and schools? That’s how I was gauging Boris’ threshold before I’d slip out and re-acquaint myself with Sofitel. Each appetizer, entree and drink added to the meter. The trick was to make sure that we reached a comfortable midway point–somewhere between, “Sweet Batman I think a turd pebble just dropped” (bad) and “Oooh; I’m broodin’ to make some puddin'” (good).

I even did a few dry-runs (heh) to the bathroom during various points of the wedding to gauge the situation, but alas, the crowd was too frequent and too Bat-damn chatty (“So are you friends with the bride/groom?” Mofo I’m here to drop a link in the john, not to play Facebook) that it was clear that I’d had to wait until the after-party to get down to business.

And so, at the stoke of 2am, once much of the post-wedding/after party crowd had dispersed, I made my triumphant return to the Sofitel’s 1st floor bathroom.

I obviously couldn’t bring a book with me to the wedding, so I brought the wedding program with me instead (since it was a traditional Jewish wedding, there was lots to read inside. Perfect).

I felt like Fred Astaire as I glided to the stall, and with a graceful motion, opened up the door and….



it was ruined. I mean ruined. Paper, pee and puke peeked from every porous porcelain port. It looked as though the entire Phillies World Series parade had taken place inside of the bathroom. And Ryan Howard was the last to leave.


They ruined it with their poosicles, dukesicles and limedukey. Their stinklogs and dingdongs and Heineken pee!"

I was devastated, d-e-v-a-s-t-a-t-e-d. “Oh Sofie”, I cried, “what have they done to you?”. Even Boris wept a little (not good). I dropped to the floor and hugged the toilet–I felt like Celie in The Color Purple when she’s reunited with her kids. Inside, I felt myself becoming The Grinch–my heart shrunk several, several times, while Boris’ ire grew and grew.

Revenge will be had, Sofie. Oh yes, revenge will be ours. They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I think this one’s going to be hot. And stinky.

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