Apparently, sayeth google analytics, the oh-so-clever phrase “if you sprinkle when you tinkle” is one of the most common search terms that leads people to this little website. (Sorry to disappoint you, folks — no cross-stitch patterns to be found here.)
So, um, yeah…I’m gonna go curl up the fetal position and die now. I’ll leave the textual analysis underlying the great “neat/sweetie” literary schism to you guys, k?
This one might be a little more home-spun, but I think the urine-colored highlighter and ellipses diarrhea really pushes it over the top:
If you want your mind completely blown, check out this international variation, from Jamaica:
Nothing could have prepared Lauren in Oakland for the passive-aggressive avalanche that awaited her the other day at her new apartment. She calls the experience of finding the notes totally surreal. “It keeps playing back in slow motion in my mind, from the second I saw the first one hanging over the threshold to my absolute horror and delight at finding an eleventh one hours later on the bathroom door.” Here’s the theme park version!
“I’m not sure anything in particular prompted it,” Lauren says, “but I live, apparently, in some kind of alternate dimension where full-grown adults believe in chore-wheels, so it could’ve been anything — but certainly not ELEVEN things to correspond with the number of found notes. Then again, I’m not a timebomb waiting to explode, so how would I know?”
My own neighborhood of Park Slope, Brooklyn has high concentrations of dogs, babies, crazies and bloggers, which makes for a heady brew of incredibly well-documented passive-aggressiveness. Certain notes (like this long-running series) show up in my inbox over and over again. I’ve gotten various iterations of this note from no fewer than six different people over the past few months, with good reason.
I think the dogged persistence of the note-writer is pretty incredible in its own right, but even better is what the note doesn’t quite explain: these bags weren’t just being stolen — some “juvenile/adult delinquent” was also cutting the bottom of the bags, then putting them back for the next unsuspecting dog-walking victim. Oh, shit!
(Thanks to William, Kathleen, Elaine, Sarah, T-1-11, and JM for submitting!)
I think what fascinates me most about this e-mail, from the head of the party planning committee — excuse me, “fun fund” — at an office in Toronto, is the subject line. Not only does the writer ignore the obvious “let them eat cake,” she vetoes the direct approach (“hey, fatty”) in favor of the utterly nonsensical “for your records.”
Sounds like somebody in this Seattle office is havin’ a little ‘roid rage.
What’s Muscle Milk, you ask? Well, say its makers, “Muscle Milk is arguably America’s favorite protein.” Apparently because unlike, say, chicken, Muscle Milk comes in flavors like “egg nog,” “chocolate banana crunch” and “root beer float.”
"Same thing happened when I eloped. My boss took it as some sort of personal offense that I didn't let her know in advance because she would have thrown a party. I mean, she still could have afterwards but apparently she didn't want to unless she was on the shortlist of people who knew in advance."