Dear Young Master Fancyhair Who Was In the Men’s Toilets Beside My Office at 15:43 Today,
You’re a disgusting pig.
I don’t care how much money you spent on your designer glasses frames. I don’t give a damn how much time you spent assembling your wardrobe or preening your (sadly, rather goofy looking) hair this morning. I couldn’t care less how many hours you practiced that saunter of yours, either.
If you take a crap and don’t wash your hands, you are a pig. Done. End of story. Finito.
There’s no excuse. You’re not in that big a hurry. You’re not living in a gulag. You’re not living in the middle of the most dire water shortage in history. You’re not above the laws of hygiene. You’re not living somewhere there there isn’t running water. For heaven’s sakes, the sinks in this bathroom actually run hot water, and there’s always soap and a (somewhat semi-functional) hot ait hand-dryer on hand, too!
If you’re not worried about wallowing in your own filth, fine, but please let me know so I can install a lock on your bedroom, locking on the outside of course. Nobody should have to ever shake hands with you, you filthy, disgusting creature.
You may now return to your regularly scheduled preening, slacking, and trying very hard at irrelevancies. Thank you for your attention.
Sincerely,
Gord