Dear Guy in the Bathroom Stall,

I don’t know if you can smell it or not, but my toddler just refilled the peanut butter jar, if you know what I mean, and I really need to get into that bathroom stall to rectify the situation. It’s the only place in this bathroom where a baby changing table was installed, you see.

I’ll admit it, I know you were here first. And, for the time being, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt that the only reason you’re in the large handicapped stall is because all the other stalls were taken when you got here, even if they are all empty now and have been for the 10 minutes my son and I have been waiting for you to finish — I can’t imagine you haven’t heard us here, what with his continuous babbling and exclamations of “poop!” and “dye-pah!”. Or perhaps you are actually handicapped. Like I said, I’m going to assume you’re in that stall with good reason.

The purpose of this note though, beyond what I admit is more than a little wonderment at what is taking so long, is that I’ve become alarmed at the curious noises I’ve been hearing on occasion coming from the stall. Frankly, they have me concerned.

Oh no, no no no, nothing like that. I assure you, I haven’t heard any noises I’d ascribe to your… business. None at all. Which is part of the problem.

What I’m referring to is the sound of newspaper pages turning.

In the spirit of continuing benefit of the doubt, I’m going to assume that you’re not in there reading a newspaper of course. I mean, that would be just ludicrous, right? Reading the newspaper in a public bathroom handicapped stall while someone is clearly waiting to get in there and trying to keep his toddler from eating the urinal cakes in the meantime? Ridiculous.

So, I have to assume you have some other purpose for the newspaper.

Look, I’m no expert, but I don’t think newsprint makes very good toilet paper. If the stock of regular tissue has run out in there, I’ll gladly pass you some from another stall. Or even some baby wipes. They clean and moisturize. Just ask.

It occurs to me that maybe the problem is that you are in some sort of distress. Maybe some ne’re-do-well has robbed you and tied you up in there, using only newsprint for some unknown reason. Or perhaps you are suffering the ironic fate bestowed on you by some unfortunate Faustian bargain or wish upon a cursed monkey’s paw, and have actually been transformed into a being of pure newsprint. That would suck.

The point is, if you’re not out of there soon, I swear I’m busting the door down.

Sincerely,

The Guy Whose Stinky Toddler Just Crawled Under the Stall Door and Handed You This Letter