Salutations, my dear readers, and welcome to the fifth installation in my Bathroom Review Series. Today, I am but an adventurer embarking on a journey through a place as nice as Warren Buffett and as meticulously maintained as Donatella Versace’s face: a bathroom in our beloved John M. Huntsman Hall.
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Thank you so much, dedicated readers of my bathroom reviews. (That doesn’t apply to you, Bingus Michaelson. I read your spam comments every week and they hurt me.) Without your support, I could never have gotten the opportunity to review the holy grail of bathrooms: the bathroom in Penn president Amy Gutmann’s house.
-Hey, can I use your bathroom?
I turn the handle of the door, checking to make sure my horrible son, Johnny Jr., whom I truly do hate, is by my side. He is not. I find him in the floor’s study lounge, tattooing a terrified man’s face. Rats. He must have found the tattoo gun I stole from his mother, my beautiful ex-wife, whom I miss desperately.
So much went down in my freshman year bathroom. I pooped for the first time in my life, I met my first girlfriend (a shampoo bottle), and my roommate accidentally got addicted to meth after sitting on a needle someone left on the toilet seat. (Rest in peace my sweet Franzio; you did not deserve to get a fatal sunburn just days after kicking the meth addiction.) Now’s not the time to reminisce, though– we have a bathroom to review.