Mosef in Houston says this is just one of the workplace safety team’s many delightfully fear-based messages that decorate his office.

Meanwhile, our submitter in Athens, Georgia says that copies of this one particular sign appeared one day out of nowhere, taped to practically every available surface. (I’m guessing the thinking behind it was something like, “Well, if a picture’s worth a thousand words, a thousand pictures are…oooh, a piggy bank!”)

related: He died for your clip art.

extra credit: Instructional Instructions

In one of my clearest memories of first grade, I distinctly remember my teacher telling us, on the first day of school, that the bathroom in the back of the classroom was only for emergencies. For non-emergencies, we’d have to wait until lunchtime. In my six-year-old mind, however, “emergency” meant only one thing: “throwing up.”  And so, when I had to go, I held it. And held it. Until…well, I wasn’t holding it anymore.

That’s right: It actually took wetting my pants for me to learn that the word “emergency” means very different things to different people — a concept some people apparently still haven’t figured out.

It’s unclear, for example, what might constitute a “citrus emergency” at this Pleasanton, California optometrist’s office. (Perhaps a masochistic mandarin peeling itself?)

You might think people would be a little more precise in their language on a military base. At Arizona’s Fort Huachuca, you’d only be about half right.

At Gustavo’s new office building in Seattle, it only took about a week — and about a bazillion false alarms— before someone decided a little clarification was necessary. (Sorta sounds like something you’d expect from a classroom of first-graders, no?)

Meanwhile, Andrew in Cirencester, England only noticed this sign after pushing open one of his office’s alarmed fire doors (triggering a sudden and unforeseen occurrence — i.e., ear-shattering noise).

related: Gee, thanks for the clarification

I think this has got to be my new favorite (unintentional) twist on the old “your mother doesn’t work here” trope. So congratulations, overbearing office manager! The three hours of company time you spent searching for just the right clip art — not to mention your charmingly cavalier disregard for spell-check — did not go unappreciated!

P.S. I promise, from now on,  I will be sure to always clean and scrub the delicious Italian rice balls so graciously provided by the Phantom Mammas infiltrating our kitchen.

related: Yo momma doesn’t work here (or here, or here, or here)

Just in time for WTF? Friday…

Exhibit a) Posted on the front door of Ruth‘s apartment complex just outside Washington, D.C.

Exhibit b) From a parole liaison at the New Jersey Department of Corrections:

Exhibit c) From a vacation rental home in Maine, as spotted by Mike from Philadelphia, who adds, “I’m allergic to type set in Comic Sans.”

related: Screenbeans are never okay

Every day, you watch them, in horror: Those vile, germ-laden, nether-region-wiping creatures who don’t wash their hands after using the toilet. Confronting the offenders directly wouldn’t work, because, well, you’re passive-aggressive, and that’s just not how you roll. So what to do next?

Well, you could dazzle them with some accusatory statistics…

…or attempt to appeal to the altruists in the audience.

And maybe try to lure in the sports fans with the promise of some fun trivia!

If they see through that little scheme, you could try patronizing your patrons outright…

…or just straight-up treat them like four-year-olds. (“Did you wash your hands?” “Yes.” “DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?” “I said yes!!!”)

Perhaps even a dash of reverse psychology?

Of course, those less-straightforward techniques just might just backfire on you.  In that case, you could play the bully with THE CLIP ART THAT MUST BE STOPPED.

Or, if your clip-art collection is a bit larger…release the dragon!

Not scary enough? Maybe it’s time to bust out the F word.

Or the even scarier F-word: FECAL-ORAL.

And if that still doesn’t work? Well, I guess you’ll just have to flounce away, invest in some latex gloves, and vow to hold it ’til you get home.

(Thanks to Jen in Houston, Jenni in Spokane, Marley in Pittsburgh, Lindsey in Memphis, Laura in Richmond, and the many anonymous submitters for their contributions.)

related: Five approaches to toilet paper maintenance

extra credit:  “On Washing Hands,” by Atul Gawande

extra extra credit: “Maybe You Touched Your Genitals” Liquid Hand Soap

So, which of these cutesy little rhymes is least likely to make you stab yourself in the eye?

Exhibit a) from an office break room in Atlanta, Georgia?

Exhibit b) from a college dorm suite in Winston-Salem, North Carolina?

Or — smiley-face-free! — exhibit c) from a share house full of frat boys in Los Angeles?

Still there? If so, you probably need a palate-cleanser after all those cringe-worthy couplets, so I’ll leave you with this delicate haiku from an office in Washington, D.C.

related: Scatological Poetry Slam

Which of these urinal notices do you find most troubling?

This one, from a London nightclub?

This one, from a construction site in New York City?

This one, from a campground in Russellville, Arkansas?

Or this one, from an office in Redmond, Washington?

P.S. “Sausage dump” wasn’t a euphemism.

(Thanks to Dylan, Paul, David and Lucy for submitting!)

related: Why I hate Miami

Based on the evidence below, I’d say one of John’s male coworkers in Sydney, Australia has taken “holiday spirit” too far. Way, way, too far.

related: Sprinkles are for cupcakes