I’m a graffiti artist. You might be familiar with my work. The big purple penis in the bathroom stall at the Circle K off I-95 Exit 77A? Me. The bigger, purpler penis in the Douglas Elementary School bathroom stall? Also, me. But much less refined than my later stuff.

Security’s been tightened at Douglas Elementary, so I’m forced to search elsewhere for my next canvas. I follow a group of solemn hood rats wearing all black. They keep littering flowers and bawling—doing nothing to cover their tracks. Rookie mistake, because they lead me to a 500-foot-long marble bathroom stall wall. Bingo. And there’s no toilet or sink or gunk. Double bingo.

This is a graffiti hotspot, judging by the 58,000 or so names. My new competition are the likes of Lt. Chadwick Harper, Maj. Lionel Beaumont, and Capt. Augustus McDaniel. Posers. These “artists” seriously think their homogenous minimalist style and bourgeois names are shedding a light on our hypocritical repression by “the man”? Give me a break. And why don’t we throw subtlety out the window while we’re at it? I was in this game long before these frauds, and I’ll be in this game long after them. No one compares to the Purple Peen Machine.

That’s me, FYI. It’s a little something I’ve been cooking up. Let me know if you like it. I was also thinking Big Greg, if you’re more into slant rhyme. In big, bold Comic Sans I paint “Purple Peen Machine” across the 500-foot wall. In a smaller font, I write “Big Greg,” just in case I decide to make the switch later on.

For my next project, I’m gonna paint a mural of soldiers valiantly sacrificing their lives in the name of freedom, because I love war.