The bar staff tried putting up polite signs. Have Your ID Ready. Please Do Not Stand on Bench. Please No Toilet Paper In Trash Cans.
Well, obviously that shit didn’t work and, seeing as how you motherfuckers don’t respond to niceties, looks like they’ve chosen to get a little more firm with their language.
No Standing On the Bench Damn It! Somebody doesn’t understand that most people don’t like sitting on footprints made out of the sticky shit from the bathroom floor, and that somebody is you. What are you, a fucking meerkat? Sit down and watch the show.
Have Your Fucking ID Out and Ready, Idiot. You know you’re coming into a bar. You know we’re going to ask for your ID because you look twelve fucking years old. You know you look twelve fucking years old because you’re sixteen fucking years old. At least have the common courtesy to have your fake-ass identification in your hand so we can tell you to eat shit and kick rocks.
Please Do Not Wipe Your Ass and Put the Paper Anywhere but The Toilet. Why did they even have to make this sign? What kind of savage are you? Next time you have the urge to carry a shit-covered piece of T.P. out of the stall and all the way to the trash can on the other side of the room, just do us all a favor and keep walking out of the bar, down over the levee, and straight into the river where you could kindly deposit yourself until you drown, sparing us all the possibility of having to rear your spawn after you knock up your sister and die two years later in a tragic but well-deserved electric bread slicer incident. Thank you.