I'd Like To Discuss A Very Serious Matter With All Of You Today...

That's right. Toilet paper... the unsung hero of our lives. Now, I know what you're all thinking: "C-dog, we get it; you've got the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old and you think foul, scatological humor is hilarious. Please, please... write about fast food again or something because we're tired of all the potty talk around here. Oh, and also, you're looking so incredibly handsome this morning, it's like reading the blog of an exotic male dancer, except you haven't got the clap."

Well, first of all, you're right... I don't have the clap. How sweet of you to notice! Now if I could just convince the NYC blood banks of that, I'd be rollin' in free cookies and juice. But that's hardly the issue at hand. I want you to know that I hear your concerns; I'll be the first to admit that my content does have a tendency to skew nasty. However, we're all adults here and I believe that it's my duty (heh... "duty" sounds like "doody") to bring into a public forum topics that are usually discussed only behind closed doors with the closest of friends, relatives, or guys that you've brought home from a bar whose expensive coat you've just ruined. Why, exactly, do I believe that this is my duty (heh...)? Well, let's just say that I have my reasons and that they are gross.

We've reached an understanding, yes? Good! Because we've got to talk about toilet paper now and I don't want anyone begging to stop the ride before we've safely returned to the station. As it were.

Now, let's get on with it:

Toilet paper... what is it, really? Is it man's way of coping with an unfortunate aspect of human biology? Is it the last line of defense between a civilized life and all of us living in a forest, smelling really bad? Is it the greatest invention ever to be applied directly to the butt? Yes, yes, and most definitely yes. It's a wonderful product, one that most of us use on a daily basis, and one that, when it's doing it's job the way it's supposed to, we rarely even think about. And why should we? It isn't the most pleasant thing to ponder in your free time, especially when there's so much available pornography on the internet. And it's not something you're going to bring up in after-work conversation with a bunch of buddies at the bar (unless you're me, but that's beside the point).

But, people, there are times... dark, harsh times... when toilet paper doesn't do it's proscribed task; when it fails to clean us in an unnoticed and respectful manner. Ladies... gentlemen... I know this to be true because I, C-dog, am going through one of these times and, worse yet, I will be forced to endure it for as long as I'm employed by my current... er... employer.

The toilet paper in my office is substandard. There. I said it. Actually, "substandard" doesn't even cut it, because "substandard" implies that there was actually a standard for which it's manufacturer was striving. That is so clearly not the case with this particular brand of toilet paper. Truthfully, I'm not entirely convinced that this toilet paper was manufactured. It seems much more likely that it was discovered deep in a cave somewhere in a jungle, clinging to the walls and fearing the light of day. It's horrible... words cannot describe the roughness, the stiffness, the unwillingness to yield. It abrades. It scratches. It rasps like a cat's tongue, but with none of the inherent adorableness.

It is, in short, responsible for the unending misery that permeates my day and I have absolutely no idea what to do about it. I mean, sure, I could start bringing my own toilet paper from home, but then I'd be the guy in the office who's known for carrying toilet paper around in his tasteful man-bag and that's not a distinction I'd particularly favor. I could file a complaint, I guess, but again... I'd be known as the guy who bitches about the toilet paper, which in turn would have everyone in the office staring at my ass and, frankly, they do that enough as it is (I hear the phrase "like it was sculpted from a block of fine, Italian marble" whispered by men and women alike every time I walk from my desk to the printer).

So this is my fate. To suffer in silence, blog excluded, and to forever dread my bathroom time in much the same way a prisoner dreads a shower with a group of men all larger than he. Pity me, friends, and take stock of your own toilet paper usage. Because I guarantee you don't know how good you've got it.