PowerWash Pros
Member
I'm tempted to start out by saying "You know who you are", but perhaps you don't. Maybe you're thinking to yourself, "I broke a loaf in someone's parking stall last night, could he be referring to me?" Maybe you're under the misapprehension that relieving yourself in someone's parking stall is something pretty much everyone does from time to time, like smoking a recreational joint or driving too fast, or eating prime rib. So, to all of you who took a dump in a parking stall last night, let me provide some identifying details to help narrow down which of you I'm referring to.
First, you are almost certainly male. Either that or you're the 1976 East German Women's Olympic Gold Medal Weightlifting Champion. There's a slim possibility you're a horse.
It's very unlikely that you're homeless. It wouldn't take a PhD in nutrition to figure out that your pre-poop meal was -- how shall I put this? -- adequate. Formidable. Representitive of all the major food groups. You get my point.
Still don't know who you are? Stall 146. Green level. Yeah, you.
So now that you know who you are, my message to you is rather simple: WTF???? Let me get something across to you. For nearly 4000 years, humans have developed the habit of pooing in toilets. Pooing elsewhere is generally considered at best inappropriate (I'm being generous here), and usually raises the eyebrows of mental health officials, particularly if you're in the vicinity of several 24-hour restaurants more than willing to accomodate your 7-pound growler in exchange for nothing more than a cup of coffee. But, apparently you declined to exert the minimal effort it would have taken to retain your butt shuttle for a block and a half and avoid brown trouting where my Goodyears are supposed to go. If you really feel compelled to fashion a grunt sculpture in a parking stall, you're more than welcome to shell out the $146 monthly fee for a stall of your very own -- plenty of space to for you to deposit fly-infested brownies to your heart's content. You could even entertain guests. Until then, see if you can catch up to the rest of the human race and cram a cork in it, pal.
One more thing. To the guy whose (evidently) brand new Dockers discovered the potato a split second before his eyes did -- I feel your pain, man. At least you weren't wearing flip-flops.
First, you are almost certainly male. Either that or you're the 1976 East German Women's Olympic Gold Medal Weightlifting Champion. There's a slim possibility you're a horse.
It's very unlikely that you're homeless. It wouldn't take a PhD in nutrition to figure out that your pre-poop meal was -- how shall I put this? -- adequate. Formidable. Representitive of all the major food groups. You get my point.
Still don't know who you are? Stall 146. Green level. Yeah, you.
So now that you know who you are, my message to you is rather simple: WTF???? Let me get something across to you. For nearly 4000 years, humans have developed the habit of pooing in toilets. Pooing elsewhere is generally considered at best inappropriate (I'm being generous here), and usually raises the eyebrows of mental health officials, particularly if you're in the vicinity of several 24-hour restaurants more than willing to accomodate your 7-pound growler in exchange for nothing more than a cup of coffee. But, apparently you declined to exert the minimal effort it would have taken to retain your butt shuttle for a block and a half and avoid brown trouting where my Goodyears are supposed to go. If you really feel compelled to fashion a grunt sculpture in a parking stall, you're more than welcome to shell out the $146 monthly fee for a stall of your very own -- plenty of space to for you to deposit fly-infested brownies to your heart's content. You could even entertain guests. Until then, see if you can catch up to the rest of the human race and cram a cork in it, pal.
One more thing. To the guy whose (evidently) brand new Dockers discovered the potato a split second before his eyes did -- I feel your pain, man. At least you weren't wearing flip-flops.
