Wet Paint

I just took a load of clothes down to the laundry room. There was a “Wet Paint” sign on the stairwell wall. Good. But it said nothing whatsoever to indicate where the wet paint was. Now, this has happened before. . .

. . .so I was prepared. Someone else was not so astute, because when I got to the bottom of the second landing, there were footprints in the not-exactly-tacky-but-not-completely-dry paint. They led from the bottom of the stairs all the way over to the washing machines. There’s no way on earth the person walking on the wet paint could not have realized what he was doing. That’s just plain assholery.

By now, the paint was dry enough to walk on without leaving marks, not that it mattered(!), so I went ahead and put my clothes in the washer. If the paint had still been wet, I’d’ve driven over to the next court, onna counta I’m not a total asshole.