I always feel as conspicuous buying toilet paper as I do buying porn.
I feel shame. I don’t want people to see me. I think people will think less of me for knowing I use the stuff.
This makes zero sense because I have no such prim inhibitions about people watching me eat.
And if I’m going to do one, I’m going to do the other. Rather, if I’m going to do one, I’m going to do No. 2.
I bring all this up because I just spent what I guess we can go ahead and call -- forgive the inevitable vulgarity -- a shitload of money on a mattress-sized raft of industrial strength toilet paper.
It’s was $12.78 for the Charmin Ultra Strength MegaRoll 9-pack. That’s 352 2-ply sheets per roll or 375.7 square feet of TP.
The package specs makes it seem sturdy and voluminous enough to construct a big top circus tent. It makes flushable toilet paper sound more durable than steel wool.
Coincidence alert! I’m writing about TP while I’m listening to TP. By perhaps subliminal determination I included the 1981 Tom Petty album, “Hard Promises” in a playlist that includes Dire Straits’ “Making Movies,” and Elton John’s “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” Sorry you can’t be here. I’m having fun.
It would have been freaky if I’d have selected an album by the old punk band, the Butt Hole Surfers. They were, ahem, a cheeky bunch.
Anyway, I get home -- thought I’d have to bungie strap the purchase to the roof of my Saturn -- and discover Val had bought the same thing. Twice!
She’s a coupon clipper and found a great deal on toilet paper.
And now we may be the first family who has toilet paper both out and up the ol’ wazoo.
The surfeit of toilet paper has me thinking of despotic North Korean ruler Kim Jung Il. Or should that be des-potty-ic?
Official North Korean history books declare his body so evolved it produces neither urine nor feces.
That’s certainly a pity. You’d think the sprinkled tinkle from a body so divine would be nourishing enough to feed the millions who’ve starved to death under his tyrannical rule.
It may be the lone evidence of humanitarian concern from him that all his palaces include dozens of toilets. How thoughtful.
He’s not at all like my mother. Because I’m obliged to shop for her and attend doctor visits, I’ve become grimly familiar with the natural bodily functions of this woman I always considered too pure to have even engaged in sex.
Well, maybe once or twice.
It might be entertaining to post a YouTube video of someone like me sitting there wincing every time the doctor casually asks his 78-year-old mother, “So, Rachel, how are your bowels these days?”
Her big thing is Kleenex. She can’t get enough of it.
I go to the store about once a week for her and she always insists I bring home three new jumbo boxes of Kleenex. She lives all alone, has only one nose, and there’s no evidence she’s decorating a parade float.
I once gently asked, Mom, are you sure you need three?
The impudence nearly made her head explode, which I guess would have required a cleanup involving nearly 300 boxes.
I lavish her with rolls of toilet paper and she’s unmoved by the gesture.
I try and be the good son. I try and not get upset with her.
It’s not easy, as many of you sadly sympathize.
I know I’ll again run out of patience and will again feel sad at my human shortcomings.
I wish I could convert all this toilet paper into patience. Then I’d be on a real roll.