An Angry Email to The Asshole Who Didn’t Flush The ToiletBy David Dietle
To: ?(For now)
From: David Dietle
Subject: That mess in the bathroom stall…
You know what, guy? I get it. I also hate public restrooms. I honestly believe everyone who doesn’t have some bizarre fetish hates public bathrooms. And you know why? Because they’re disgusting.
This brings us to you. You are why they are disgusting, you inconsiderate dick. You know that handle shaped thing on the toilet? That’s for flushing, which is what one typically does when they are finished filling the toilet with whatever horrors you consumed in the past 24 hours. Otherwise, it sits and ferments like some terrifying Icelandic stew.
I’m serious, I couldn’t tell if you had Thai, or Mexican, or have some kind of horrible intestinal parasite in the split second it took for me to lose my appetite for the day (I am hoping it’s the last one). It seriously looked as if you were trying to make some sort of artistic statement in bodily excrement, like Piss Christ, only less tactful. Is your ass filled with compressed air? How the fuck did you get it ON the seat?
I am convinced only someone with a severe cerebral defect or extra chromosome could be this stupid, but I am also convinced that comparing you to people with mental disabilities is cruel to people with mental disabilities. People with Downs syndrome aren’t retards; you are.
I was going to give you the benefit of the doubt; maybe the toilet was clogged and you could not flush it. But then I remembered the building I work in has those super-vacuum toilets that move your hair when they flush, so no dice there. I have never had a single crap resist more than two flushes, and I occasionally eat Burger King Triple Stackers as an appetizer. Plus, those toilets are designed to conquer big beefy chuds, and your contribution was more like hot and sour soup. So that means you are either stupid or lazy. (I have chosen option C. For “Both”)
This brings me to my next complaint: why was there no toilet paper in that yellow-green-and-awful-colored piece of impressionist hell? There was an unused industrial roll of TP directly to your left. Are you missing a hand? Do you fear paper? Are you against the nice clean feeling your sphincter experiences when it is not coated in a layer of fecal matter? Again, I understand public restroom toilet paper is more like wiping your ass with a paper bag than the downy-soft sheets of ecstasy we all enjoy in our homes, but anything is better than having a pasty, un-wiped crack.
What really frightens me is that you and I clearly work in the same building because everyone has to use a code to get into the bathrooms. Do you work for the catering company down the hall? Because the thought of anyone eating food you handled is terrifying to say the least. I will be keeping my eyes on the papers, and if I find any parties in the area that ended in a cholera outbreak, I’m blowing the whistle, shit head. Needless to say, just to be safe, I will never have that company host a party, just to err on the side of caution. How does it feel to know you robbed a company of business?
Probably about as bad as you felt detonating your anus all over a public lavatory, you godamned sociopath. And it’s not like the image you left burned into my retina and mind’s eye were enough! What’s with the smell? It was like you ate an entire bucket of KFC extra crispy and followed it up by using a 7 layer burrito as an enema!
I had KFC last night myself, so you can imagine how that turned my stomach. They say smell is the sense most closely tied to memory, and thanks to you, I am pretty sure I now have PTSD. I would threaten to punch you in the junk if I met you, but I am afraid your genital area would give my fist herpes and my wrist genital warts and crabs.
While pondering whether I should write this or not, I entertained a little fantasy. In it, some equally insensitive prick was smoking near you as you walked to your car. As the noxious vapors wafting from your posterior flowed over his lit cigarette, a streak of flame rocketed up your colon and you erupted anally like that guy Denzel Washington strapped to his car in Man on Fire and blew up with the explosive butt-plug.
I suppose having to live with yourself is punishment enough. I can’t imagine how you breathe day to day with that fetid odor reeking from your pants. My mental picture of you is a hobo, beaten with cat shit and that blue water from a Port-O-Potty and left to ripen in the sun, although I doubt you would have made it to the bathroom past security in that state, and really, why bother use a bathroom at all at that point, except to spread your misery to others.
No, I think you are far more insidious; like a serial killer, you look like the rest of us, waiting until our guard is down and then firing off an ass-grenade that would qualify you for war-crimes under the Geneva Convention. I feel bad for the janitor who has to clean that mess up. He should be able to sue for damages.
I can’t comprehend how you live with yourself; I myself had some pretty severe stomach issues this morning and used that exact stall; the KFC and burritos I ate last night were having a fight in my guts and it spilled out onto the street (the street being the toilet), but I am pretty sure I both flushed and wiped. Then you came along and managed to destroy that same stall with your putrid butt. To think, had I been a little later, I would have had to experience your assault on porcelain and decency. Fortunately, I was alone, and did not see you enter.
Be warned, if I find out who you are, I will do the same to you that you did to me.
The guy who’s day you ruined.