I once met the man who cut all of the glory-holes on the West Coast.



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“Well, not all of them - but about 90% of ‘em.  I just love it when somebody’s beat me to it!” he tells me.

I was hanging out with one of weed legislation’s great champions, sitting and smoking, as he introduced everyone there to each other: “this is ██████ he’s a dancer, this is █████  she’s a flower arranger, this is ████ he’s an artist, ██████ is from--where? Suriname? ‘studying’, and this is ██████ - he works in sales, but his passion is, uh, well he’s drilled all the glory-holes on the West Coast.” 

“Huh?”

“All of them!”

“The fuck?

“I represent this company, ██████, so I drive between San Diego and Seattle all week” he says as if that explains it.

“Show him!” someone chimes in.

He puts his briefcase on the table. It looks as unassuming as he does, as tan as his corduroy blazer. He busts it open and, there, movie-assassin-style, is a 16-volt drill with a giant hole-cutting blade, complete with four extra batteries, and a roll of sandpaper. I shit you not.

“Every glory-hole in every truck-stop, every porno booth, every rest room.” 

“He’s been at it for 15 years!”

I told him he was my hero.

“It’s for the people,” he tells me.

One dude, one hole cutting drill - thousands of holes up the coast. Let’s get moving on this people! No bathroom stall in America without a hole - they ain’t gonna cut themselves!