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August 15, 2005

Volume 5, Issue 15

Today's theme is toilet paper.

Because I'm getting sick and there's never a roll far from my reach... Deal, mmkay?

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"Mom, there's a really big bug in the bathroom."

My son needs a firm hand sometimes. So I bent down, looked him dead in the eyes, and said:

"Son, you go kill that bug yourself, and then wrap it up in some toilet paper and flush it right down the commode. You'll feel better."

The boy turned pale, nodded, and set off down the hallway. I heard terrible screeching, a triumphant yell, and the "ker-pssssshh" of the plumbing.

He came back a few minutes later. Behind him, a pair of chitinous legs sprawled limply.

"Mom? It doesn't want to go."

Posted by: Thomas at August 15, 2005 8:16 AM · Permalink

The cramp almost doubled him over, so John cut his torch off and quickly made his way across the bridge to the Porta-Potty on one end. Dammit, he thought, I knew I shouldn't have had those burritos last night. The plastic door slammed shut behind him, and he latched it as he unfastened his jeans and sat down. The fluid mess almost exploded out of him, interrupted occasionally by a loud blast of intestinal gases. Oh, damn, that felt good, he thought as he hunched over and groaned. Messy, but so damned good. Then he saw the empty paper roll.

Posted by: hnumpah at August 15, 2005 9:23 AM · Permalink

"And here, in Cell 17, we have a classic borderline personality."

"He seems like a harmless old man."

"Indeed, although when interviewed, those who knew him said they always knew something was 'off' about him."

"How did he manifest?"

"The usual. One day he got tired of being berated by a supervisor half his age and took a pistol into work. Shot him and two customers dead."

"But what's that...in his hands?"

"Believe it or not, a package of toilet paper. When the police came, he went quietly so long as they let him keep holding it. Well, squeezing it."

Posted by: Jeff R. at August 15, 2005 1:16 PM · Permalink

"Lost!" Ronnie cried. He had been separated from the rest of Beaver Troup during their nature hike two hours ago, and night had fallen quickly in the woods.

His belly rumbled. "I have to go, but - oh! No TP!" He cast his gaze desperately over the shrouded foliage, spying at last the knee-high shrubs to his left. "Aha! A scout always improvises!"

He did his business, and was surprised by how comfortable the leaves were. "Smooth, soft, oily - Downy could learn a thing or two from Mother Nature," he chuckled gamely.

As he would learn later, it was poison ivy.

Posted by: G-Do at August 15, 2005 4:50 PM · Permalink

John snuggled a little closer and kneaded Donna's shoulder. "Come on, baby," he whispered as he kissed her lightly on the neck.

'No!" came the reply as she huddled deeper under the blanket.

John rolled over in exasperation. "Dammit, woman," he griped, "Why in the hell is it that you never want to make love anymore? It's got to where your idea of foreplay is six months of me begging for sex."

She didn't respond, so he continued, "I'm getting tired of the only time I get a piece of ass being when my finger breaks through the toilet paper."

Posted by: hnumpah at August 15, 2005 5:02 PM · Permalink

"Two squares and a spare!" The words still ring in my ears. My old man was one of the cheapest bastards who'd ever walked the earth.

Toilet paper was kept, not on a roll next to the toilet, but on a roll outside the bathroom door. It was to be dispensed, under his watchful eye, three squares per trip. It was uncomfortable, humiliating, and required a great deal of hand washing. Fortunately, the soap wasn't as severely rationed.

He was born during the Depression. He died last June. True to his memory, we buried the bastard in a cardboard box.

Posted by: Adam at August 15, 2005 5:37 PM · Permalink