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I slipped on the floor heading into the men's room at a fine Italian eatery on a recent Saturday night—nearly landed on the seat of my very inexpensive Dockers. But I had no idea you were the cause. I make it a habit not to make eye contact in there. I go straight to the first open stall and do my business. But as I was returning my rented Chianti Classico into the porcelain tollbooth, I saw you do a crude robot walk from the sink to the door. Then, when I went to wash my hands, I came upon your dirty work: you'd filled the sink with puke, you fucking puke! And you ralphed so much—veal scaloppini, excellent choice!—that your vomit spilled over the side of the sink and onto the floor. That's what caused my earlier Slip 'N' Slide routine! I was close on your tail as you hobbled past the bar to the snickers of three hipsters sitting there. Before I could grab you, I thought of the danger to fellow diners and stopped to tell the manager about the upchuck slick you left behind. When I tried to catch up with you again, you were gone (probably terrorizing fellow motorists). Listen, dickwad, Orange County has plenty of bars. Dance clubs that serve alcohol are plentiful. At any one of a number of live-music cesspools, you can get a drink. The next time you decide to go tie one on, would you choose someplace other than a restaurant? This particular place serves large portions of Italian food. I could easily have gorged myself silly. But I decided to quit eating well before it got to that point. I knew when to stop. You could have done the same when you were downing those huge martinis, asshole, and then gone somewhere more appropriate to finish the deed. I suppose it could have been worse: I could have been the poor schlub from Zacatecas—or Michoacan or Baja—who had to clean up after your sorry ass.