With Christmas in our rear views and New Years on the horizon, it’s time to sit down by the fireside and reflect on some thoughts kicking around the ol’ noggin. Call it a “Fireside Chat” if you will, only instead of issues of national security, I’d like to address some matters of personal scrutiny.
Here’s some stuff to think about…
1. Single-Ply Toilet Paper At Home
I never thought the high point of being an “adult” would be the ability to purchase two-ply toilet paper for myself, but after this last visit home, I’ve never felt so re-affirmed. You see, my parents live by (and always have lived by) the “Singly-Ply” code of conduct.
I remember as a kid giving my parents a hard time for buying the cheapest toilet paper known to man. 50 cent toilet paper is 50 cents for a reason — it leaves your ass sore and makes your colon cry for better days. Like actual tears, made of blood.
Somehow, rest stops and port-o-potties have managed to spend more on toilet paper than my parents. Compared to the single-ply Marcal brand sand paper I have at home, shitting in a public restroom is like powdering my ass with fresh flowers and pillowed kisses from an angel. It’s a vacation.
When I confronted my Dad about such injustices this past week — as well as my total amazment at how he has been able to live with such TP — he simply says that “the septic system requires it.” And then proceeds to call me a bitch for whining about it.
Touche, Dad. You’re probably right. Maybe I spoil my anus. But then again, maybe you’re ass is just so calused and chapped from all those years of 1-plyin’ it, that you could wipe your ass with a porcupine and feel fresh. But more likely, I’m probably just a bitch.
So here you have it– brush aside all my accomplishments — one of my most proud, crowning achievements in life is my continued, personal use of 2-ply toilet paper. I now find myself deeply satisfied, even beaming, that I treat my asshole so well on a regular basis.
I deserve it.
2. People in airports are fucking weird.
“If you see something, say something.” Right? Isn’t that what the TSA is always preaching? If you see something suspicious, you should report it to the authorities.
Well, I’d love to. But when I go to the airports (especially in New York), I have no idea what the fuck I’m seeing. I see SO MUCH weird shit, I wouldn’t even know where to start. I can’t go into an airport WITHOUT seeing something mind-blowingly weird.
Usually in the men’s bathroom.
I swear to god, on my flight back to LAX yesterday, I went into the bathroom and saw a guy barefoot, in a towel, holding his jeans up to the air dryer. He had no pants on. Just a towel. Air-drying his totally soaked pants under the air-dryer.
I did a double take.
The guy was in his fucking towel! Did he shit his pants? Piss his pants? I don’t know. Maybe he just wanted to hand wash them real quick in the sink, because, you know, why not.
He was like 40s, white, balding — not a typical terrorist. More you’re typical guy with Irritable Bowel Syndrome that just let a mud monkey loose in his pants by mistake. But I saw something. And it was not pretty.
I went into a different bathroom later (I was very early for my flight, damn you heightened security!), and there was this guy with a really expensive camera taking pictures of the tops of urinals. Like focusing manually, squinting, and really getting into it. Needless to say, I took a piss in the stall.
But he was photographing the tops of the urinals. He was still doing it when I left. Again, suspicious activity? More like incredibly weird dude with a urinal fetish. But again, I saw something.
And then (this was last month, when flying around Thanksgiving), when I was traveling out of LAX, I walk into the bathroom to take a piss — and there was some guy with his shoes off, washing his FEET in the sink. His leg awkwardly propped up, bent over himself — washing his feet, with soap, in the sink.
And here’s the kicker: He was an employee of the TSA. He WORKED for the airport, and this guy was washing his feet in the sink. Now what the fuck? If that isn’t the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, then I don’t know.
Who am I supposed to tell? Should I have tapped that guy on the shoulder and told him I witnessed something disturbing? Him. And would he please stop it.
Probably. But I don’t know, it’s all so weird. You can’t make this shit up.
3. I need to read something in the bathroom or I feel depressed.
I’m not a huge reader by nature — books only find themselves between my fingers during airplane flights and vacations on the beach — but I am an avid reader when it come to the bathroom.
My subscription to Rolling Stone is a fantastic bathroom read, and is always an interesting page-turner that helps pass the time. And I always welcome an additional periodicals or magazines that find their way into the man throne.
But recently (while home) I was challenged with the task of having to poop without anything to read. I didn’t know what to do. I started to get depressed, nervous. You start thinking about things you’d never think about. “Are my toes weirdly shaped?” “Was that freckle on my thigh always there??”
I got bored. Anxious.
I picked up anything around me and started to read it. I read the toothpaste, the contact solution directions, and (ironically) the back of the extra roll of Marcal 1-ply toilet paper. Did you know that the active ingredient in Crest Pro-Health Toothpaste with Whitening is ‘Stannous Fluoride’, and that according to the back of the tube, “products containing Stannous Fluoride may produce surface staining of the teeth“?
Am I the only one that finds that incredibly ironic?? The toothpaste is called Crest Whitening!!! How can a toothpaste stain and whiten at the same time?
That actually left me perplexed for a half a loaf. And in case you think I’m joking, I am so fucking serious, it hurts.
And that only took me like 4 minutes. I was bored to death after that. And these are holiday shits, mind you. Big boys. I couldn’t rush through it. And worst of all, I had nothing to help them go any faster.
It was an incredibly empty, confused feeling. Like a dog that had just chased a squirrel for a mile, then stopped to realize he had no fucking idea where he was, or how to get back home. It was scary.
But thankfully, I pulled through. And from now on, I will carry an emergency article on me at all times. Maybe a novel. Just in case I need to pinch a loaf.
Well, that about wraps up my mindless thoughts for the moment. I’m now back in sunny California and safe from the cold, the airport freaks, and the 1-ply toilet paper. And I can safetly read for hours at a clip on my man throne.
So yeah, back to normal. In the mean time, 2010, watch out. I got 2-ply and I’m not scared to use it.
I have a weird taste in Christmas music. 
I don’t know how you’ve done it so long, ladies, but the let me tell you something, I’m on to your lies. For these first 25 years of my life, I’ve toyed with the notion that “women don’t poop” and “girls don’t fart.” It’s a rumor that you hear often as a man, women preach it as truth. Clearly, the laws of physics and nature make this statement an obvious dud, but I entertained the thought because, much like Santa Claus, I wanted to believe.
So what do you do in a situation like this? She was pretend sleeping (or maybe real sleeping). But the sleeping was awful fidgety — almost as if she shifted every time she let one loose. So I did the best thing I could. Any time she made a movement during her sleep, I’d be at attention — both wait for the next onslaught of nasal raping, and also waiting to see if she would “wake up” to go to the bathroom. If she wanted to, I was ready to hop up and let her out.
I’m sick of hearing about steroids and performance-enhancing drugs in baseball. It’s all anyone ever talks about — Is A-Rod juicing? Bonds should be thrown out! Where are those asterisks?? Show me those asterisks!! 
Artist: Weezer feat. Lil’ Wayne
