After six tall Coors Lights and two rounds of jalapeno poppers the last thing I need to deal with is this ridiculous bit of tomfoolery. I grace this suburban shitpalace with my presence and this is the thanks I get? By forcing me jump through hoops like I'm like I'm some sort of circus freak that, uhhh, has to jump through hoops? Listen here Curtis, assistant night manager of Pistolero's Cantina, if I walk in the ladies room and see some stuff I can't come back from, that's your ass. Plus, that could lead to jail time on my end. Play it straight with the bathroom signs. No tricks. I have to drive a car home and it's not cool to have this added confusion wreaking havoc on my fragile state.
This just made my night! Well done, sir. Well done.
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