Well, at least I think I’m funny.

The first blog to say goodbye that I really enjoyed was intern Andy’s. Then The Daily Dump called it quits. Next thing you know, Spinach Dip peaces out. Now the lovely Monkey Pants is claiming to have had her fill (for at least the time being). And while these blogs represent the institution of blogging to many, well, I’m glad to see them go.

I know what a lot of you are thinking “But Andy, I really enjoyed reading those other blogs and I thought you liked them too. Why would you want them to go?” The reason, my friends, is this: My blog is terrible and ridiculous. I can’t be expected to compete with consistently funny humor the likes of Intern Andy’s or The Daily Dump’s. My writing is at the very best sub-par compared to Spinach Dip’s, and let’s just say if I blogged about my personal life like Monkey Pants…well, there would be a lot of blogs with simply a date, a time, and a list of things in my refrigerator.

You see folks, it’s all about standing out in a crowd. And when the crowd leaves, then it’s just all about standing. I’d like to send a big thanks to the bloggers who have quit and would like to encourage all others to follow in their footsteps. It’s kind of like I’ve gone from being USA to being TBS. Instead of tuning in every now and then, people are going to start dropping by on a regular basis- still not really expecting anything great (nor should they, because they won’t get it), but still looking for something better to do than just sit and stare.

I pledge to you all that I won’t leave you stranded. I’ll continue to write mindless humor, poor music reviews, and shabby observations. I’ll always be here to be your TBS, MTV, and heck, maybe even someday NBC. Just because I can’t write, doesn’t mean I’m not determined.

Dear Non-Flushers of floor 9,

First and foremost I realize you may not be able to read this letter, seeing as how you can’t figure out how to flush the toilet. However, being the generally amiable person I am, I figure I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt of, at the very least, a high school education (note: “high school” indicates the grades 9-12 in the American Educational system - not a school located at the peak of a mountain or run by Snoop Dogg and Cheech and Chong).

There is a serious matter I’d like you to consider upon urinating: flushing. Flushing is defined in the dictionary as “To be emptied or cleaned by a rapid flow of water, as a toilet.” As complicated as this process sounds, it doesn’t actually involve any need of yours to “empty” anything, nor does it mean you have to clean something. Quite the opposite in fact, it requires you simply to pull, or push, a lever (in any direction). It’s pretty amazing. The “rapid flow of water” comes as if from nowhere and washes away your pee - leaving a whole new batch of fresh water for the next person to pee into.

This may not seem like a big deal to you, seeing as how not flushing doesn’t affect you at all. But to that guy who has to use the urinal after you? Well, it’s a pretty big deal.

You see, your pee smells bad. Maybe it’s your constant diet of Budweiser and chicken-fries, I don’t know. I do know that you are certainly not well-hydrated and you don’t take any vitamin supplements. The next person that has to pee has to deal with your stinky pee. It’s really gross. If you haven’t noticed our bathroom is classless enough without emitting the stench of a malnourished man’s urine. I mean, my God, just standing there for the .03 seconds it takes to do the flushing you couldn’t be bothered to do is enough to make me want to puke. If you flushed the toilet, it would eliminate the smell of your tepid pool of penile swill from the bathroom. It would also signifigantly diminish “splashback.”

Splashback is what happens when you pee at the urinal. It’s bad enough to get your clothes and hands slightly misted by your own urine, but to think that someone else’s is mixing with it and creating a hybrid, uber-pee, is disgusting. You might be surprised to learn that I don’t want your pee on my hands or splashed onto my pants and belt. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. You flush when you’re done urinating, and I won’t hold your face in the urinal when I see you leaving the bathroom stinking of the recycled 40 of Old E you drank last night before your trip to KFC.

In closure, I’d like to thank you for at least trying to read this. Please, for the sake of humanity and to avoid its regression to prehistoric times, flush…damn you.

Sincerely,

The King of Spills