Shitter’s Digest

The American Bathroom Quarterly

A mechanic in a navy work shirt enjoying a magazine during a quiet bathroom reading break

Something good to read. A clean place to stop.

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.

Inside a sample fall issue

Vol. 5 · No. 3
An open issue on a workshop bench with features about trucks, knives, hiking, cartoons, and digestive health
Ninety-six pages, saddle stitched, bathroom tested, and printed on paper that still feels like paper.

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 sit

Good Boots, Bad Decisions

Four friends, one weather map, and the precise moment a shortcut becomes the whole damn trip.

High Country · 8 minute sit

Sharpen Your Knives

A whetstone, a coffee cup, and ten calm minutes that save hours of sawing at tomatoes.

Hands On · 4 minute sit

A Regular Column

Dr. Miriam Bell explains what color, shape, timing, and trouble can tell you—and when to quit reading and call a real doctor.

Good Guts · 5 minute sit

Regular company for a quiet five minutes

Read front to back or until your legs go numb

Stall Tales

Remarkable true stories from shops, rigs, farms, job sites, hunting camps, kitchens, garages, and one very unlucky bait store.

American Iron

Trucks, cars, motorcycles, tractors, tools, and the stubborn mechanical things we keep because they can still be fixed.

Good Guts

A physician-written digestive column, the seven-type chart, straight answers, and no miracle powders sold on the next page.

The Joke Book

Cartoons, overheard foolishness, classified disasters, reader jokes, and the quarterly apology from our legal department.

Shop Calendar

Work boots, tattoo flash, riveter swagger, and a wink—drawn with enough clothes on to survive the break-room wall.

Long Way Home

Adventure, travel, fishing, weather, and the noble art of getting lost somewhere worth talking about later.

Bench Wisdom

Small repairs, field fixes, lunch-counter recipes, household tricks, and useful knowledge from people with dirty fingernails.

The Last Word

One full-page cartoon placed exactly where a dignified publication would put a closing essay.

Three editions. Three bathroom doors.

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.

Three editions on a walnut rack: Shitter's Digest, The Porcelain Princess, and The Royal Flush
The original, the ladies’ quarterly, and the one you leave out when company is coming.

Shitter’s Digest

Work, wheels, woods, jokes, health, and enough low-brow civilization to improve a man without him noticing.

The Porcelain Princess

Written and edited by women: candid stories, domestic genius, bodily truth, style, craft, comedy, and absolutely no pink tax on the cover price.

The Royal Flush

The discreet cover package. Same sturdy reading, a little less barn language, and nothing that alerts a dinner guest from the hallway.

A pristine perforated magazine insert holding folded toilet tissue and two sealed personal wipes
Perforated, sealed, unbranded, and replaced with every issue. If you use it, the magazine has served its country.

The emergency last sheet

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.

Paper
Unscented two-ply
Wipes
Two individually sealed; bin disposal only
Seal
Moisture-resistant gatefold
Refill
A fresh one every quarter

Never confuse crude with lazy.

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

An illustrative masthead

Editorial

Hank Doolittle · Editor in chief

Rosa Velez · Managing editor

Cal Mercer · Features editor

June Haskins · Copy chief

Departments

Miriam Bell, MD · Good Guts

Walt Breen · American Iron

Nia Porter · Long Way Home

Otis Lamb · Cartoons

Porcelain Princess

Georgia Price · Editor

Amina Cole · Features

Luz Santiago · Art director

Mae Talbot · Reader letters

Publishing

Dale Kwon · Publisher

Erin Moss · Production

Billie Crane · Circulation

Leon Pike · Last Sheet engineer