Dear Nasty Drunk Bitch, Who Dined in our Establishment Last Night:

You have got to be kidding me! You're at least 21 years old. Surely by now, you've mastered potty training. And I'd hope by now, you'd understand the nuances of the social construct. There are certain rules we must all abide by, to exist peacefully in a society. I like to get drunk. Been doing it quite a bit lately. I don't like rules, either. In fact, the more rules you try to put on me, the more I tend to do precisely the opposite of what you originally wanted me to do. But the one thing I could never bring myself to do, regardless of my state of inebriation or defiance, is to shit all over myself, and a bathroom, and then leave my fucking nasty, formerly white Ralph Lauren thong on the floor, so someone else can handle it. Seriously! And I only had to handle the problem after most of it had been taken care of. Stephie had to bear the brunt of this foul task. She was just trying to pick up what she thought were paper towels. Mani the dishwasher also had to get in there with a mop. A mop that can never be used again, I might add. I had to go in with Insta-San and a fucking bar towel. You probably got to go to another bar. I can only hope you spent the evening giving off an odor that let the whole world know what a shitty person you are. Ha! You see what I did there?

In conclusion, I pray to Thor that you are so humiliated by last night's event that you'll hide in your home, until you can learn how to behave yourself.

I wish I had some brain bleach.

Vomitously,
Heather