Signatures are like pissing, it is bad news to stop halfway through either of ‘em. I hate having to restart signing my name when distracted mid-squiggle, you can never get the momentum up again. At least it doesn’t burn like uric acid devouring a soft pink urethra…
And of course, at times people use their warm caffeinated urine to write their names in the snow, further cementing this connection.
It’s a territorial thing, a way to take credit for or control of something. From signing documents to tagging buildings it is the modern equivalent of pissing on a lamp post or in the corners of one’s yard, declaring the urea-reeking spot “yours”. Listen to the pissing sound of a spray-can as some filthy hoodrat scrawls “Teh fuckzor” across some pristine soulless breeze-block wall and tell me this gobshite isn’t dreaming of whipping out his dick and hosing the thing down…
Ah, it always comes down to penises with men, doesn’t it? I don’t see many women needing to scribble in vivid across bus-shelters and shopfronts. And the mechanics of writing in the snow does boggle the mind… this is the bloke’s domain, the Alpha Male lording over all he surveys with a beer in one hand and his cock in the other. Look at what he puts his name on, after all. Like lonely cowpokes branding the arse-end of their cattle? ‘Nuff said. Hell, even the name’s a giveaway. And the insistence on drawing a cock and balls on things, this is straightforward cut-out-the-middleman felt-tip-pen hooliganism. I’d like to say it is the domain of the modern primitive, the slope-foreheaded glue-sniffers in running shoes that will never be run in and bomber jackets that have never seen the inside of a B52, but drawing porn dates back to the Egyptians chiselling cock on tombs of long-dead dudes with their lungs in jars. Or the “celibate” monks of the Dick Ages merrily decorating their illuminated Bibles with a plethora of bodily functions all to honour Jeebers, all the way up to my school days when some poor sod took a story book based on the Praying Mantis that Ate New York and drew monster dicks on all the bugs. The bugs, people. Hairy-balled insects eating skyscrapers. It haunts me.
And yesterday, I saw the ultimate in pointless sign-posting/pissing, on the sign for “The BaseMENt”. For those of you in denial of your arse-hungry urges, the BaseMENt is a rainbow-striped gay “adult” store for all your greasy buttplug needs, and it’s sign consists of a photo of a big G-stringed crotch. And that’s it. Just the shops’ name, and an enormous package glaring at you with lumpy malice like a bunch of grapes wrapped in a hankie.
And on this sackful of walnuts, someone had with shaky Biro drawn a penis, urinating.
Perhaps like the forgers of old and the politicians of new, this pen-wielding donkeyfuck thought by putting his mark on this member he in some way claimed allegiance to its monstrosity, a chance to claim he was that crotch, two foot wide and smooth of bikini-line. Maybe he thought the sign too subtle and needed to educate those unsure of what lurked beneath the cotton. Maybe he just really liked cock. At least we can be thankful he didn’t piss on the damned thing.