1. Contrary to what I scribbled on the vending machine, the gum did not taste like rubber. The product in question was, in fact, not gum. From the first moment I saw the vending machine, I clearly understood that it dispensed prophylactics only. The location of the machine (above urinal) and the variety of products offered (e.g., French Tickler, Midnight Thunder, Ultra Sensationz) made a taste test unnecessary. Was this joke funny to other bathroom patrons? I’m not sure.
2. According to literature from the hot-air hand-dryer industry, this device reduces the chances of acquiring communicable diseases. It also helps save our precious trees. So, it was irresponsible of me to recommend that for more effective drying, one should instead wipe his hands on his pants. Even if this were true (a thesis refuted by exhaustive industry research), the message was conveyed through large, uneven letters hurriedly etched into the metal instruction plate, which did nothing to suggest legitimacy. I might secretly applaud others who employ this alternative method of hand drying, but I accept no legal responsibility for the consequences.
Also, scratching out portions of the original instructions to craft a few unsavory words and phrases was entirely unnecessary.
3. I know what is supposed to go into a urinal. The name of this receptacle leaves little doubt as to the substances it deigns to accept. The sum of this list is water and human urine, mostly. The list does not include gum and cigarettes, and it certainly does not include a cellophane bag that once contained pork rinds. Around the drainage area of the urinal is a small, plastic sieve-like device that reinforces the notion that, at minimum, what enters the urinal should be of a liquid consistency.
Addendum: I am aware that I should not gleefully pull the handle of the urinal numerous times to create several minutes of superfluous flushing, and possibly a magnificent overflow. This is unfair to other patrons, plus it usually doesn’t work.
4. To members of certain local football teams, fraternal organizations, and females: apologies. It was wrong of me to sully you with words and illustrations on the walls of the bathroom stall. I have never, to my knowledge, met any of you. I don’t even live in this state.
5. Despite the large, enthusiastic strokes with which I penned my stall-door proclamation, it is debatable whether the Eagles still rock and kick ultimate ass.
6. To leave engaging reading material in the stall is to unconsciously tempt my fellow bathroom patrons into sacrificing their good health for fleeting entertainment. You do not know where my hands have been, other than on the material you fetched from the floor and are now perusing. The floor itself is vile, though you should know this already.
If I leave quality pornography on the floor, I am being especially devious and inconsiderate of your well being, for you will most likely disregard this warning and pick up the material immediately with your greedy, lusting paws. For this, I am sorry.