Don’t be fooled by the smiley: this is the kind of note that really throws you off balance. (It’s been more than a month since she received this note, and Kiki from Boston says she’s still shaking in her boots a little.)

related: I Can’t Believe It’s Not (My) Butter

If you missed them, catch  up with Act 1 and Act 2 of the Mad Bomber saga. Here, the  (somewhat anti-climactic) conclusion:

It appears that season one of this series concludes with a dramatic cliffhanger ending. Will the Mad Bomber be caught in the act? Will Richard G. Sells post another notice outing the bomber for public humiliation and condemnation? We can only hope.

This fiendishly funny note comes to us courtesy of Jennifer in Philly, who does not condone the theft of bottled water of any kind.

The stolen item in question here? A serving of creamer.

If you missed it, Act 1 is where this saga begins. Here, we see Richard G. Sell’s frustration grow to a fever pitch…

And it continues with Act 3…

I don’t want to oversell this, but the following series of three signs (sent in by a health-club patron who wishes to remain nameless) just became my new all-time favorite. I love so many things about Richard G. Sells’s first masterpiece (below) that I don’t even know where to begin.

The best part, I think, might be the Freudian slip mid-way through (“…without getting any of the crap in the toilet stool itself.”)

But it doesn’t end there! Read acts 2 and 3.

Such a perfect little hat trick at the end of this note (submitted by Laura in Baltimore) — the four exclamation points, the heart, the “thx.”

I realize this example (from outside the American Legion HQ in Park Slope, Brooklyn) is not so much “passive-aggressive” as it is “crazy,” but it tickles me too much not to post. The little species/feces couplet has been painted over and re-written at least twice, so obviously I’m not the only one who appreciated it.

You can’t tell from these photos, but this little storefront stands as one of the few bastions on Fifth Avenue that the armies of invading gentrifiers couldn’t take down with their industrial-size nozzles of mrs. meyer’s and turn into a precious little bakery selling organic dog cupcakes. While I was taking these photos a man in a lawn chair was either yelling at me to stop or trying to sell me a ratty old suitcase.