I've found out where Hell is.

To the casual observer, 332 S. Michigan avenue in Chicago, Illinois looks much like other Chicago buildings. It architecturally fits in amongst the other buildings surrounding it, has businesses located on the street level and offices and homes on the upper levels. However, it does contain one thing that these other buildings do not. As far as I am concerned, 332 S. Michigan avenue - floor 2 - is the gateway to hell.

Enter the mens room.

If you've ever heard Dane Cook's rant about mens rooms, you know that the typical mens room is dripping wet. Yes, a St. Bernard shook himself dry in there. The walls are wet and there is obscene graffiti on the walls, often of the erotic variety. The toilet seats are urine coated and often have butt crust left on the top of the curvature of the seat. This is just one of the legacies that men leave other men throughout our lives.

The mens room on the 2nd floor of 332 S. Michigan avenue is vastly different than the stereotypical mens room. It is infinitely worse. This is the kind of place you would never ever willingly visit if you could help it. If there was a tipped over port-o-let open in the hallway and was leaking out septic waste onto the floor, that would be preferable to the enclosed and private mens room. 

I would even go so far as to say I would rather pee with my pants down in front of a crowd of jeering elderly people than to use the mens room there.

This loathsome, godless room is the kind of place you would use as a penalty for losing a bet. Say you bet your friend that you can bed a pretty girl and you lose, you may end up doing bare chested push-ups in the large handicapped stall in this room. 

The handicapped stall is one of the dirtiest places to drop waste. People have wiped their arses and deposited the paper on the floor next to the toilet. Not just once or twice, but enough to create a moderately large pile. The toilet paper dispenser itself is constantly riddled with homo-erotic and racist quotes, song lyrics, all of which are misspelled. 

Boogers, some bloody, are picked or blown directly from the nose onto the wall in a Jackson Pollack-esque manner. The floor is not worth walking on - think Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom insect carpet scene. The urinals eerily ooze fluid of some kind, the ceiling weeps blood, the art on the back of the door is bad, but admirably, the best part of the bathroom experience (which is bad no matter how you look at it). The sink is always dripping and is usually covered with some sticky waste or alien life form that is seemingly bent on conquering every square inch of the countertop.

So, next time you brazenly tell someone to got to hell, let them know it is located a 332 S. Michigan Avenue in Chicago.

Oh, you can also tell them that it is expecting them.