Bad job by you

This is an open letter to the guy at work yesterday who walked straight from the toilet stall to the door of the men's room without passing go, collecting $200, or washing his fucking hands (we'll call him "Shmarc Shmattenberg," just to keep things anonymous): The next time you're going to take care of a deuce in the old communal workplace loo, please have the good sense to not walk past a guy diligently washing his hands merely on account of touching his own face, and not some other deeper sanitary issue, without doing the same yourself. If you are going to fly the coop without applying a little tallow lather and water to your e.coli ridden palms, do it on your own clock, and not when I can clearly watch you bug out of the toilet without making things right on behalf of your fellow door-handle users.

Seriously, next time why not just stinkpalm my phone receiver and Bluetooth mouse while you're at it, because I don't think me and your digestive system have been all that thoroughly introduced to one another. Until then, I'll just be over here with the WalMart-size jug of Purel, liberally dosing any and all exposed surfaces with glorious, gelled alcohol.

Remember that botulinium that accounts-payable was suffering from en masse? Thank me for stopping its scorched-earth march at the copydesk. As Patrick Stewart once yelled, "We must draw the line HERE!"