A Gem from Target

I was shopping the other day at Tar-jay (Target, for those that refuse to use the French pronunciation) with my brother when my bald better half needed to shake the dew off the lily. Rather than stop our conversation for five seconds, I followed him into the men’s room, where I was confronted with this gem.



Lets zoom in on that sign a little more for emphasis.



Let me get this straight: Was this a problem? Were too many men opening their kid’s diaper and thinking to themselves, “Hey, while we’re on the subject…” and marching off to knuckle out a growler of their own as their kid squirmed in a pile of excrement? And, if this is taking place, why interfere? If you’re enough of a rocket surgeon to walk away from your spawn and he falls and splits his head like Humpty Dumpty, well, I feel confident in saying that the cure for cancer probably wasn’t residing in Son of Dummy’s grey matter, now splattered all over the tile. Live and let die.