October 29, 2008 by Marj Hatzell
If you are easily offended, NOW would be a great time to stop reading. I’m serious. Srsly. I decided yesterday that I must get on my soapbox and rant for a few minutes. This is a very sensitive subject and I know it is very personal. No one ever wants to talk about it.
It’s about toilet paper, y’all.
The reason for this rant? I’m so freaking sick and tired of going into a public restroom and finding sand paper to wipe myself. Lady parts are delicate flowers, no? And worse yet? When you are in a hurry, you go about a gallon and then reach to grab paper and…one sheet comes off. Worse than that? Half of the sheet comes off. And rips. And then you rip sheet after sheet off until you become so frustrated you’ve dripped dry at this point and wad up what you have and use it and then storm out of the stall, over to the sink, turning on the water so that it splashes all over you and you reach for the paper towel (also dispensed one sheet at a time) and it RIPS IN HALF, TOO.
This is purely hypothetical. It’s not like it actually happened yesterday at the Wawa in Folsom or anything. And it certainly didn’t happen at six o’clock EDT.
And it isn’t like I went to Mecca Tarzhay and had to go pretty badly (I’m pushing fluids, I’ve had a rotten cold, yo) and the cleanest stall was actually open for a change and so I go in there, yank the undies down and squat (never sit on a public toilet) and realize there ain’t a sheet of paper in there. And even if there was, that stuff is like using a piece of cardboard on your hoo-ha and who wants that? Certainly not me.
I’m fairly certain that the board of directors at toilet paper manufactors are ALL MEN. See, they only wipe about a fifth as much as we gals do and therefore they don’t care if it works like sandpaper. I bet there’s a grand conspiracy at foot and they actually have, say, Cottonelle or Charmin in their loos. Seriously. I’m going in there next time. I bet it’s cleaner, too. There’s always a line at the ladies’ room. I never see a man go in a public restroom. Not even my man. Not even my boys. But that may be due to the fact that my boys don’t use public restrooms and prefer to actually go by the nearest tree or, say, wet themselves in THE MIDDLE OF NEBRASKA when you yourself are running a fever of, say, ONE HUNDRED FOUR and there aren’t any rest stops for two hundred miles because you passed one and stopped twenty miles ago and he SWEARS, HE DOESN’T HAVE TO GO AND NOTHING WILL COME OUT.