An open letter to the woman in my office who insists on continually pissing all over the toilet seat in the women's washroom (and in my favourite stall, no less):
You are a mystery that must be solved.
Listen, I know it can be gross to sit your bare ass down on a toilet seat that doesn't really belong to you, but it's not like this is some shit-reeking outhouse at Ozzfest, lady; it's our office bathroom. There are like, 10 women in here, and we're the only ones who have access to it. And as far as I can assume, none of us have crabs. (Although I will admit that you never really know about those things.) Anyhow, the crab point is moot, because even if you do pull a hover-job, and even if some of your liquid waste matter does get on the seat, HAVE THE CONSIDERATION TO WIPE IT OFF, for Christ's sake. I don't care if you drop a hunk of TP on there and rub it around with your shoe, as long as that urine makes it into the bowl somehow, it matters not.
I have made it my personal mission to sniff you out before I leave this place. And I will find you...mark my words.
I've been going all Veronical Mars on your ass: If I come in the washroom and see that my stall is occupied, I check shoes or, if need be, spy through the crack in the door to see who it is. As soon as the suspect leaves, I rush over and check the seat. No pee? No perp.
And if I'm finished my duties and you come in, I stay in there to brush my teeth in the hopes that I'll also see you exiting. If my gums begin to bleed and you're still not out, you'd better believe I'm making a mental note of which stall you're in. I've got an internal database which contains the stall preference of every woman in this office, baby...it's only a matter of time before you show yourself.
I will say this: YOU ARE GOOD. It's been two years and I have yet to catch you. But when I do, boy...well, I probably won't do anything, but at least I'LL KNOW WHO YOU ARE. And reveling in your grossness and total lack of consideration will be more than enough for me.
Thank you for your time.
