The library bathroom I want

There are a lot of gripes these days with the McGill library system. Too many talkie idiots who don’t work. Too loud. Books are too hard to find or are not findable. Frustrating security guards who steal my bottles of Coke when-all-I-want-is-a-little-pick-me-up. However, these problems aren’t my biggest concern nor my biggest problem with the library. No, my biggest problem with the library is its lack of good poop literature.

At home, whilst I produce coprolitic masterpieces, I am treated to reading all sorts of delightful things. At my humble commode, I have a great selection of things to read. Such literary fecal treats are: a copy of Watchmen, two Schott’s Miscellanies, a few old Economists, a number of J. Crew catologues which turn up at my place sporadically addressed to, I assume, the previous occupants, a film magazine or two, an old Vice, another music mag, and the pièces de shitistance, a tattered and incredibly over-read copy of Vice’s Do’s and Don’ts book. Now, I know what you are thinking: how spoiled this guy is to have such a well turned out poo-library. Of course, you’re right.

Which brings me back to my most pure-ious gripe with McGill’s libraries, and now that I think of it, McGill as a whole’s toilet system. Damn the books: give me some available ass-produce literature other than the most recent Sean Turner quotation. I call on the readers of The Daily to protest at the doors of the most important administration building, until my demands (and, I assume, now your demands) are met. To paraphrase Patrick Henry, some American guy, give me pooping literature, or GIVE ME DEATH!