Sunday Driver
Three hundred miles in a long-bed pickup with no destination, no touchscreen, and one cassette that only plays side B.
American Iron · 12 minute sitThe American Bathroom Quarterly

The bathroom may be the last ordinary room where a person can sit alone for five minutes. The phone has colonized even that interval with infinite feeds designed to prevent a natural stopping point; the old stack of random magazines has mostly disappeared, and with it a small shared household culture.
Someone opens a phone for one quiet minute, absorbs an argument, an advertisement, and six unrelated anxieties, then leaves twenty minutes later feeling less rested than when the door closed.
A finite quarterly issue offers one true story, one useful thing, one excellent cartoon, and a clean place to stop. It restores the bathroom reader as a modest household object—and hides one genuinely useful last sheet inside the joke.
Three editions from one publishing house. Four seasonal issues a year. A proposed 96 pages in each, with one emergency insert.
Remarkable true stories from shops, rigs, farms, job sites, hunting camps, kitchens, garages, and one very unlucky bait store.
Trucks, cars, motorcycles, tractors, tools, and the stubborn mechanical things we keep because they can still be fixed.
A physician-written digestive column, the seven-type chart, straight answers, and no miracle powders sold on the next page.
Cartoons, overheard foolishness, classified disasters, reader jokes, and the quarterly apology from our legal department.
Work boots, tattoo flash, riveter swagger, and a wink—drawn with enough clothes on to survive the break-room wall.
Adventure, travel, fishing, weather, and the noble art of getting lost somewhere worth talking about later.
Small repairs, field fixes, lunch-counter recipes, household tricks, and useful knowledge from people with dirty fingernails.
One full-page cartoon placed exactly where a dignified publication would put a closing essay.
Every edition is written for the place it lives. The reporting is real, the humor is field tested, and nobody pads the issue with twelve pages about luxury watches.
Work, wheels, woods, jokes, health, and enough low-brow civilization to improve a man without him noticing.
Written and edited by women: candid stories, domestic genius, bodily truth, style, craft, comedy, and absolutely no pink tax on the cover price.
The discreet cover package. Same sturdy reading, a little less barn language, and nothing that alerts a dinner guest from the hallway.
Two clean plies. Two sealed wipes. One small act of publishing foresight.
We put the emergency insert behind the final cartoon because a bathroom magazine ought to understand its workplace. The packet stays flat inside a perforated kraft-paper gatefold until the day somebody discovers an empty cardboard tube and begins bargaining with heaven.
There are rooms where everybody wants a screen. The bathroom is not one of them. It deserves a magazine with a beginning, an end, a spine, and pages that wait patiently when life interrupts.
We publish for people who make, haul, repair, cook, cut, wire, weld, raise, drive, and keep things going. We like a dirty joke. We also like a properly reported story, a useful diagram, and a sentence worth remembering after you wash your hands.
That is the whole editorial policy: never confuse crude with lazy. Give the reader a belly laugh, tell him something true, and leave the room a little better than we found it.
Hank Doolittle
Editor in chief
Hank Doolittle · Editor in chief
Rosa Velez · Managing editor
Cal Mercer · Features editor
June Haskins · Copy chief
Miriam Bell, MD · Good Guts
Walt Breen · American Iron
Nia Porter · Long Way Home
Otis Lamb · Cartoons
Georgia Price · Editor
Amina Cole · Features
Luz Santiago · Art director
Mae Talbot · Reader letters
Dale Kwon · Publisher
Erin Moss · Production
Billie Crane · Circulation
Leon Pike · Last Sheet engineer
Shitter’s Digest, The Porcelain Princess, and The Royal Flush are proposed quarterly publications; the issue and masthead shown here are illustrative. Good Guts would provide general information, not personal medical advice. Persistent, painful, bloody, black, pale, or otherwise alarming changes belong in a conversation with a qualified clinician, not a reader-mail envelope. Personal wipes belong in a bin, never the toilet.