To the gentleman who shit on the wall at the winery in which I work:
It's not THAT you shit, or that you shit on the wall, the floor, and sent a nuclear bomb to our plumbing that came up through the urinal. No, no, I actually found the feat itself rather impressive and mildly amusing in a twisted sort of way.
It's that you knew.
You knew the evil you were impregnated with and you knew we only have ANCIENT one-seater bathrooms with a line 15 people deep at any given moment. And yet you stood in that line, defiant, massaging your lower abdomen with noticeable flop sweat. We locked eyes on my way up the stairs because I know the signs. And I thought, "is this joker REALLY about to destroy that bathroom?" And in that moment, you smirked. And when the old woman scrambled up the stairs wide-eyed, pale, stammering about the bathroom being flooded, I knew exactly what happened. And goodness knows I've been there. I've abused food in such a way that has left me cold, shivering, naked on a restroom floor begging for the sweet embrace of death. But given a 20-minute leeway, such that you had, I would have chosen the vineyard over a one stall bathroom in a winery that was a former church.
Jesus saw what you did... next time leave a 20 spot on the can, you soulless monster.
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