Illustration by Bob AulI understand that we men are a foul, disgusting and sometimes flat-out inhumane crew, but the latest shitstorm you left in our office bathroom put us in a virtual tie with Trainspotting's "worst bathroom in Scotland." You know who you are, you sick fuck, and I beg you to stop leaving the ass grenades! We've all considered walking away from a foot-long basket of snakes or a perfectly dry-docked two-pound stick of butter with a grin on our faces. But we flush anyway. You, however, have made this your personal weekly calling card, you stinky bastard. After leaving numerous colon scuds in our shitter (I swear, one was the size of a Coors Light tall boy), the other day, you left the shitstorm of the century. I could smell it before I got within 10 feet of the door, and as I walked in, I was freight-trained by an odor that steamy dog shit would laugh at! As if that wasn't enough, apparently you had to shit so bad you didn't even have time to sit your country ass down. The crapper looked like something spray-creted with a fire hose! I will tip my hat to your latest poo Picasso only because you must have had to eat pickled eggs, spoiled corned-beef hash and carrots for a week before delivering it.
It's time to give up on this carny side show—now. So far, no one has put a face to your work, but all sloppy criminals end up getting caught, and you are going to be next. One of these days, someone's going to walk in on you trying to bail the scene, and then the entire three-story building—comprised mostly of nasally sensitive women—is going to know you are the Ass Bandit.
Hey, show us poor bastards a little fucking mercy and at least give us a courtesy flush once in a while, you shit-stained little bitch.
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