“When I first moved to Chicago,” says Mike, “my grandfather told me about parking in the winter. One would dig out a spot and insert a chair, reserving the spot for your trouble.” One of his neighbors, it seems, didn’t get the benefit of such grandfatherly wisdom.

Neither, apparently, did Chris…who made the mistake of parking in an empty space outside his friend’s house in Chicago for few hours. When he got home, he found this note affixed to his mirror with glue.

And of course, Chicago isn’t the only city that takes its snow-shoveling etiquette seriously.

Just ask Anna in New Jersey…

Or Brooke in Indianapolis…

Or Amy in Washington, D.C…

Or Larry in Silver Spring, Maryland…

Or Kristin in Pittsburgh…

Olivia in Albany…

Or Chris in Boston…where they’re always keepin’ it classy.

related: Boston, a place for friends

“Our department head thought we should be be bringing in doughnuts more often,” says our anonymous submitter in Illinois. One of the department’s “severely underpaid” underlings, meanwhile, thought otherwise.

UPDATE: For those of you asking “But where’s the ridiculous clip art?!” I bring you this rather dashing toreador/sheriff (as spotted by Mel in the break room of her Ithaca, New York office).

While Mel doesn’t disagree with the sentiment behind the note, “It’s a bit off-putting to be presumed guilty of theft before the fact,” she says. “Also, there seems to be a degree of randomness to the number of exclamation points at the end of each line.” (And of course, that dandy of a sheriff.)

related: Straight out of the Michael Scott Playbook

“I live in a condominium building that is popular with the elderly,” writes our submitter from the Chicagoland area. Recently, he says, the building’s board of managers put copies of this note in everyone’s mailboxes and posted it in the lobby (so guests wouldn’t be spared the details, either.)

Adds our submitter: “I don’t know what’s more inappropriate: losing control of your bowels in the hallway or distributing this memo to all the residents.”

Meanwhile in depressing economic news, Sara in Kansas City, Missouri says her company’s last Christmas party was held in — wait for it — the rec center of a local retirement home. Revelers who stopped by the restroom were greeted with this cheerful reminder of OMG SHOOT ME NOW.

related: Dr. Freud’s Salon Scatologica

Our anonymous submitter from Chicago says she and her four siblings recently received this somewhat cryptic e-mail from dear old dad.

Explains A: “The initials refer to our names (and spouses’ names, where applicable). Dad lives in West Bloomfield. I’m pretty sure it means he wants us to visit?”

related: love, Dad

Writes Michael in Chicago: “Apparently, some of our neighbors had a problem with us being naked in our apartment.” Without knowing any other details of this situation, I’d have to say:

a) “Be more private with yourself” is a phrase I am going to try to work into future conversations whenever possible.

b) Michael, while I 100% support your right to bare all in your own home…curtains still might be a worthwhile investment.

Meanwhile, Scott in Seattle found this note taped to the front door of his apartment building. “Needless to say,” Scott adds, the next time he saw the large bald man from the third floor in the building’s laundry room, “it was a touch awkward.”

related: get your “nozzle” off my “hose”

extra credit: man arrested for being naked in his own home [WTOP news]

Writes Katrina in Illinois: “I work in furniture, and due to the economy/the real estate crash, the company has been struggling and a lot of employees have been making a lot less money.  This little morale booster was found on the break room bulletin board — right beside the letter notifying us that the company was no longer matching 401(k) contributions.”

related: “That’s what she said”

This note — spotted by Erik in a break room at Northwestern‘s Medill School of Journalism — takes me back to my days as a bright-eyed young reporter cheerfully slaving away at my college daily, where the grizzled old alumni “mentors” working at the Times or the Globe always seemed to have the same advice:  if we were smart, we’d get the hell out of journalism before it was too late. (“Ha ha,” we’d laugh, awkwardly.) It’s somehow reassuring to know that kids today (“kids today!”) are still blithely ignoring their elders to pursue a degree that just might be the most unnecessary in higher education.

But seriously now. At this point, you’re like, “What is this biotch rambling on about? Doesn’t she know I don’t read text longer than 140 characters at a time? Show me the picture, dammit!” And that, young j-schoolers, is the topic of next week’s lecture.

related: the silverware segregationist

extra credit: the twitter explosion [american journalism review]

“One morning last summer,” writes Stephanie in Illinois, “my brother and I arrived at the company where we worked to find these notes posted to the candy vending machine. (Mind you, it was 8:45 a.m.) Apparently, the man who fills the vending machines — a.k.a ‘Mr. Candyman’ — had failed to restock the machine for a week, and the ladies of the office had had enough.”

I mean, really. we’re talking about a serious breach of the social contract here, people!

Stephanie and I were both particularly tickled by the the “gas prices” note at top right. (“What does that even mean?” she wonders.)

Meanwhile, Lisa in Nashville spotted this note posted on the vending machine in the studio arts building at Vanderbilt University. “There had been many previous notes asking (nicely) for more Twizzlers,” Lisa says, but as desperation set in, at least one distraught staff member decided to get lyrical on Candyman’s ass.

related: The Pepsi Challenge