Stop right there. Put your hands up, punk. Say I didn’t clog your toilet. Say it to my face, punk.Well, well, well. Make my day, lady at Red Robin who said the men’s restroom was off limits for me. Say you were joking. Say I am allowed back in Red Robin, and I didn’t do an absolute paint job in the men’s restroom.Well, well, well. If it isn’t the greyhound bus driver who told everyone I took a dump so bad we had to turn the bus around and go back to New Haven. Yeah, I went in there, but I’m not the one who did the paint job. I saw who did it. He was huge and he looked nothing like me. He was wearing a captain’s hat! But you told everybody it was me--even George Lopez, who was hitching a ride with us because his tour bus broke down. Announce that it wasn’t me! Announce that it was the man in the captain’s hat!Well, well, well. If it isn’t the maid at the La Quinta Inn that made such a big deal about what I did to the toilet. I said I would take care of it myself. It didn’t have to become a huge screaming match in Spanish in the hall in front of all the other customers, including George Lopez. And maybe now, you won’t have the manager make me get in the shower and clean myself off before you consent to clean the toilet. I don’t even know why he’s allowed to do that.Well, well, well. If it isn’t the manager of New Haven’s puzzle room. Remember me? I’m the guy who solved all the clues, but you still wouldn’t let me out of the puzzle room? And then I accidentally used the fake men’s room, and you brought everyone in and showed ‘em, because the fake toilet didn’t flush. And then you said in front of everyone, “who does puzzle rooms by themselves? It’s a corporate team building exercise for work colleagues.” And I said, “I like puzzles.” And you said, “here’s a puzzle, dickweed: why don’t you tryda get that real crap outta that fake toilet without gettin’ it all over yourself.”
