Editor’s note: On September 27, the owners of the Bulldog Saloon & Grill released a statement addressing the vandalism in the women’s restroom is what let to painting over the images. The owners have yet to decided if new photos will be put up. Read the full statement here.
For more than 30 years, images of naked beefcakes and babes have adorned the walls of both bathrooms at the Bulldog, a classic Whitefish downtown watering hole. There are two stalls in the women's room; one is labeled with a graphic content warning, alerting patrons about the most salacious photos of them all, the collection of fully nude male figures on the backside of the stall door. We always joked that we'd tire of looking at those same few wieners, but then the dicks vanished.
"Too many complaints. 'Too pornographic,'" an inside source told me. "Bullshit," we say.
If you are asking yourself, ‘But what about the men's room?’ Stop. Why are you asking that? Of course nothing's changed in the men's room—the wallpaper of former female nude stars and their big hair remains.
"We demand the same pleasurable bathroom experience that men get at the Bulldog!" a user of the women's lavatory roared last weekend, banging her fist on the bar.
She's pissed. I'm pissed. I can't believe management would bend over like this, cowed by complaints. I'm not saying you should complain even louder about a lack of dicks in the Bulldog powder room, but I'm not saying not to. Actually, you know what? This is not the time for silence.
Shout it with me. What do we want? Wankers! Where do we want them? On the wall! We want wankers on the wall!
"This is a direct attack on our community," another patron told me.
Whitefish needs to get back to its lowbrow roots. I didn't want to be the one to say it, but this ski town is turning into a bourgeois shithole just like the rest of 'em. For every willy we lost in that washroom, someone's erecting another new goddamn Hampton Inn. New hotel, new hotel, new hotel. We get it! You want to visit and spend your tourist dollars here.
After skiing the glorious trees all day on Big Mountain, you saddle up at the Bulldog and drink your way through a pitcher of Kokanee. Then what happens? Nature calls, of course. You go to the bathroom, and what's there? NO DICKS? So you stare blankly at the boring stall door. I don't know about you, but I'd rather observe some art.
Is porn art? It's on the WALLS. It's art. What about your dick pics, you say? Do not misinterpret this as an invitation to let the dick pics fly. No, nobody wants to see photos of your love muscle. Yes, you, dear reader. What I do want to see is that collection of curated cocks from a time in cock-history that practically predated my own existence. It was like a museum in there.
To the person(s) who complained: Why you gotta ruin it for everyone else? Shame on you! I'll show you to the other family-friendly stall myself. Why do you take such umbrage with a few fine 2-D dongs? What would Freud say?
The Bulldog is not a place of worship, and it's not a place for your censorship. Take your family values elsewhere. Besides, those Johnsons were a vintage blast from the pre-Internet centerfold past. Is nothing sacred? Is this really about the youths? Why would anyone even bring their kids to this bar in the first place?
It's not about the pricks (unless we’re talking about the complainers). It's about principle. Or is it about the pricks? Those were some prime peckers.
Look, my peeps at the Bulldog, you know what you need to do. Make this right. Stop dicking around.