I felt like it was just yesterday that I saw the empty bag of Lays floating on top of a pile of excrement in the dark blue water of the portable urinal and here it was again before me. I heard a knock on the plastic shell. The springs creaked as I opened the door to a girl dressed in a tank top strategically sliced to give her a sort of punk appearance. Her hair whipped up into a disheveled new wave beehive and a skinny necktie dangled from her gullet—the socially acceptable pre-packaged re ...

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