You shake off after urinating and consider the permanent marker scrawl on the wall directly in front of your face. GOOD ONE, it says. At the right end of the message, and arrow points up to a blank space on the wall.
No, you think. This can’t be it.
Desperate, you scan frantically over the wall in any place that the arrow could vaguely be insisting upon, but your search is fruitless. There is nothing there.
What was the good one? What was the one so good that somebody draining their dick in the bar bathroom decided to whip out a sharpie and provide affirmative commentary for it? Who the fuck carries a sharpie around? Who carries around a washable marker and writes down good jokes with it? Is it some sort of statement on the impermanence of joy? Who has to wash the walls in the bathroom? Is it the bartender? Oh god, it’s the bartender. Did he do it today? Did he wash the walls by the urinal right before he made you that gin and tonic? Oh fuck he squeezed that lime with his bare hands.
You burp loudly. It’s a good one.