I just witnessed the sick remnants of another, I believe, particularly urban phenomenon.
The menu under the door.
If you know anyone who owns a restaurant in New York City, email this post to them so that they get this message, real quick:
There is no better way, besides sliding a menu under my door, to ensure that I WON’T order from your restaurant.
I have all the menus I need, thank you (3). And I don’t even need those.
I didn’t ask for your damn floor menu. I don’t want it. Tape it to my door, stuff it in between the knob and the jamb, shove it up your ass — just DON’T put in on my floor. I like my living space tidy.
Also, by LITTERING in my apartment (littering is a fine-incurring offense in public, incidentally), you are putting ME to work, in an hilarious reversal of the way this situation works, half-wit.
I boycott such offenders. Don’t join their ranks.
I hate hate HATE when people leave flyers tucked under my windshield wiper. That is the only time I feel totally fine about littering. I see it as their fault, not mine. I will NEVER read the flyer shove under my unassuming wiper and further more I will throw it with a vengence on the ground of the parking lot.