Of all the rectal themed barbarity on offer at the local grocery store, my least favorite is the purchasing of toilet paper. There’s simply too much disparity with the presentation of myself as a reasonably put together member of society, and the rather primitive truth of scrubbing my tiny little man butthole with a crudely grasped handful of soft white paper. Therefore, when I find myself with no other option but to head down the turd-blanket aisle, I employ the following strategy.
rectal themed barbarity
First I make it a point to appear impatient and somewhat exhausted by the whole process; as if my inescapable burden of a butthole has sent me, the reluctant friend, on an errand for something I know nothing about. This look—if done correctly—will contain a hint of the same disdain I display when my Chihuahua poops in view of a stranger; “I’m disgusted by the antics of my dog’s loathsome butthole, and I have no time for this.”
The next step is to take a cursory pass at the products on display, all the while trying to keep a fine balance between bafflement and burgeoning rage. Keep in mind, I’m not actually taking in information at this point, it’s simply a charade that says “This is someone who is out of his element.” With any luck they’ll think I’m a misogynist who doesn’t usually handle this sort of business.
After sufficient time has elapsed, I approach a package and begin to analyze such details as: price, ply-count, roll count, and footage. Once again, though I am reading the information, this is designed to give the appearance that I am a shrewd and rational thinker who determines his ass-wipe purchase by quantitative data and scientific thinking, not by visualizing myself hunkered over in a dimly lit bathroom, inelegantly pawing at my filthy butthole.
I proceed in this manner, from product to product, all the while thinking to myself “Do I need ripples? Should I get it with aloe if I’m planning on Korean tonight? Will it tear when I periscope? And why does this one say ‘confident clean’ on it? Doesn’t that imply that while their plush paper offers a more pleasurable ride, some confidence is sacrificed? And isn’t confidence at the top of everyone’s list of requirements for toilet paper?
It’s at this point, driven mad by the complexity of the process, that I must either be done with the thing—or perish. I grab the nearest product available without a baby on it, that is twelve rolls or less (I don’t want to appear as if I’m planning ahead for a Hometown Buffet marathon), and scurry off to find some secondary items to distract from the rolls of ass wipe. That, or I must prepare to go home to my Girlfriend—who I’m pretty sure is perfecting her eye-rolls in the mirror while I’m away— and explain to her how I couldn’t successfully perform the most basic of domestic duties.
Luckily, there is a strategy for that.