Public Restrooms Are a Filthy, Pervert-Infested Nightmare, and You Animals Are Why We Can’t Have Nice Things

Someone has to talk about public restrooms! You walk into one, and it’s like stepping into a crime scene from a dystopian horror flick—floors stickier than a politician’s promises, walls screaming for a bleach bath, and some asshole in the next stall yapping on his phone like he’s closing a Wall Street deal. Who raised you savages? Were you born in a barn that was then set on fire? And don’t get me started on the “out of order” signs that’ve been up since Bush was dodging shoes. It’s 2025, and we’re still playing Russian roulette with toilet paper dispensers. I’m one bad stall away from wiping with my dignity and calling it a day. Society’s crumbling, and it smells like stale piss and broken dreams. Worst of all? The creepy weirdos who pick the urinal right next to you and eyeball your pecker like it’s the Mona Lisa. Public restrooms aren’t just a health hazard—they’re a tearoom for perverts, and you’re all complicit in this shitshow. Buckle up, because I’m pissed, and it’s not just my hands.

Let’s paint the picture: you walk into a public restroom—mall, gas station, doesn’t matter—and it’s like entering a post-apocalyptic nightmare. The floor’s a sticky swamp of God-knows-what, like someone spilled a 40-ounce of regret and let it ferment. The walls are smeared with graffiti, mystery stains, and enough bacteria to start the next AIDS epidemic. The sinks? Half are clogged, the other half spit water like a drunk with a lisp. And the toilets? Christ, it’s like someone hosted a chili cook-off and forgot to flush. “Out of order” signs have been taped up so long they’re yellowed like ancient scrolls, and the toilet paper dispenser’s either empty or jammed tighter than a nun’s chastity belt. This isn’t a restroom—it’s a biohazard zone, and we’re all just one bad wipe away from dysentery.

Who’s responsible for this filth? You animals, that’s who. Most of you treat public restrooms like a landfill, pissing on the seat, tossing paper towels like confetti, and leaving skid marks that could be studied by NASA. Were you raised by wolves? Did your parents skip the part where they teach you to aim or flush? It’s 2025, and we’ve got AI running our lives, but you can’t figure out how to not shit on the floor? Society’s falling apart, and the evidence is splattered across every public stall. You’re not humans—you’re barbarians, and I’m sick of wading through your mess just to take a leak.

But the real kicker? The goddamn weirdos who turn public restrooms into their personal pervert playground. You’re at the urinal, minding your business, and some creep picks the one right next to you—out of a dozen empty ones—and starts radar-locking on your shaft like it’s a heat-seeking missile. Who does that? What kind of sicko sees a row of urinals and thinks, “Gotta get a front-row seat to this guy’s dick”? I had one of these freaks pull this shit on me in a mall department store restroom, and it was a horror show. There I am, mid-piss, when I catch this peeping Johnson eyeballing my junk like it’s a rare Pokémon card. I try to zip up, still spraying like a broken fire hydrant, and accidentally splash piss in this pervert’s eye. He starts screaming, “You pissed in my eye!” like I’m the asshole for defending my privacy.

I’m freaked out, so I speed-walk out, piss-hands and all, trying to get to the exit. This turd burglar’s chasing me, yelling, “Stop that guy, he pissed in my eye!” Shoppers are staring, clutching their pearls, looking at me like I’m the creep. I’m dodging through the mall like Barry Sanders barreling through the D-line, this toe-tapper hot on my heels, still screaming about his eye. Thank Christ I made it to my car faster than a NASCAR pit stop and peeled out before he could turn it into a scene from Cops. Point is, public restrooms aren’t just disgusting—they’re a magnet for perverts who think a hand movement or a toe-tap is an invite to play your flesh flute. It’s not a restroom; it’s a tearoom for freaks, and I’m done dodging their creepy stares.

Who’s letting these restrooms turn into Petri dishes and pervert hubs? You, the public. Most of you are too lazy, too gross, or too checked-out to care. You leave stalls looking like a crime scene, don’t wash your hands, and act like flushing’s optional. You’re the same idiots who let perverts roam free because you’re too busy scrolling X to notice the guy next to you eyeing your junk. Businesses aren’t innocent either—managers slap up “out of order” signs instead of fixing shit, and janitors are either AWOL or gave up years ago. We’ve got the tech to land rovers on Mars, but we can’t keep a restroom clean or safe? That’s not a glitch; that’s a society that’s given up.

And don’t give me that “it’s the system” bullshit. You’re the system. You’re the ones shitting on seats, ignoring creeps, and letting public restrooms become a dystopian nightmare. Most of you don’t even complain when you walk into a stall that smells like Satan’s armpit—you just hold your nose and move on. That’s why nothing changes. You’re complicit, enabling this filth and danger because you’re too spineless to demand better. Every time you shrug off a broken toilet or a pervert’s stare, you’re signing off on the next guy’s misery. Congrats, you’re the problem.