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JWR 2.14 - T.P. for My Bunghole


Having your own place has responsibilities.  I know a lot of you are saying, ďNo shit, Sherlock.Ē  Or, in some cases, ďNo shit, Jesus.Ē  But wait.  Itís me.  Responsible?  Címon, I just float along.  Gotta keep on liviní: L-I-V-I-N.  Itís not just a matter of keeping a stock of cheeseballs and beers.  Dr. Pepper and hot dogs.  Oatmeal cream pies and ravioli.  Itís about keeping toilet paper on hand.  Pack and hold, Nelson people.  Pack and Hold!


And Iíll tell ya, the t.p. for my bunghole actually lasts a very long time when you are the only one using it.  But the responsibility lies not only in keeping in on hand and ready for shitment.  Ha.  :D  (Yeah, Iím a dork, so original am I.)  The real test lies in having the right brand.


When you live at home your mama keeps a healthy amount of t.p. available.  My mom shopped at Samís Club and bought a shit load (pardon the pun) of it at one time.  Here, however, space is somewhat limited.  I could not bring with all of my books.  I could not bring with all of my porn.  I could not bring with all of my bitches.  I could not bring with all of my--you know what?  Fuck it.  The next time I buy t.p., Iím going to buy a Samís big ass value pack and stuff it all in my closet and it will be the last time I will ever have to buy it again for a really really long time.


I bought a four pack a while ago and it was cool.  It was Charmin, that really soft, fluffy, two-ply t.p.  It was a good buy.  And I also bought a couple boxes of tissues.  This was cold season so the tissues ran out before the t.p.  And I never went to buy more tissues.  See, in a pinch, if youíre shitting and there is no more t.p. in that room, you have the option of using tissues.  Itís basically the same.  Maybe some tissues have the aloe in it which, I would have to imagine, would feel very good on an a-hole.  But what if you have no tissues?  Then, find a way to get to that other t.p.   But what if there is no more t.p.?  What?  Bare hand?  Wash cloth?  Yeaach.


I went bathroom supplies shopping recently and got some toothpaste, shampoo, deodorant, tissues and t.p.  But, this time I bought Scott.  Scott really sucks.  Itís like that crap they had at school.  The kind that would deter you from shitting at school, it was so bad.  Itís thin-ass one-ply.  The kind you need to wrap up like seven sheets strong before you go where no man has gone before--on me.  I canít speak for the rest of you.  (But send me your stories.)  And itís not soft and fluffy; itís stiff and unyielding to the shit.


So now Iím still working on my first roll out of four and it will be a while before I can get other t.p. because I dislike throwing perfectly good t.p. away.  I mean, Iíll throw away other perfectly good things: food, notebook paper, socks, cards, relationships.  Itís nothing to me.  So, people, buy Charmin.  Unless you like using loose leaf paper on your ass.


I look around this place and I like it.  I just cleaned last week.  I washed the hard floors and the front hall square area.  For the first time.  Yeah, they needed it badly.  The rag was black and the water brown.  I dusted for the first time as well.  Vacuumed, too, but not for the first time--third.  It looks nice again.  Orderly.  The empty cheeseball containers are stacked neatly against a wall atop one another.  Empty cans and bottles thrown in a garbage receptacle.  (ďĎGarbage in garbage can.í  Hmmm, makes sense.Ē)  If something goes wrong with an appliance or the plumbing or the infrastructure, I just call the land lady and itís fixed.  Easy as pie.  No grass to cut, no snow to shovel--although they shovel like shit.  If this year is any indication of next winter, call a podiatrist because my foot will be up someoneís ass.  Yes, I will take my size 13 lumberjack booted right foot, turn it sideways, say a prayer, and shove up straight up their candy asses.


So, Spring fever hit me a little later than most.  Thereís still a little to do.  And then thereís staying on top of it.  But the floors should be good for another six months.


But now people are telling me: save up for a house.  You should buy a house.   I say, ďBuy a house?Ē  Thatís just crazy talk.  Can you imagine me as a homeowner?  Being a DVD player owner is fine for right now.  Buy a house.  Build equity.  Fuck.  Why donít you tell some starving kid to work on his pecs.  This illustrates my concern about equity, whatever the hell it is.


Yeah, what I want is a house.  So I can do all the maintenance and cleaning and all that.  So I can attend a block party with my neighbors.  So I can rent out the extra bedroom.  So the Canadian-sized quarter dent can be in MY wall?  Shit, there would be an American gold dollar sized dent in his head if that shit happened.


Yeah, Iíll be responsible for a house.  I can barely keep enough clothing clean so I can go to work.


Are you threatening me?  You will surrender to my bunghole at once.  You will surrender to my bunghole or you will die.  I need t.p.  Bring me t.p. at once.  I need t.p. for my bunghole.  You will bow to the power of my bunghole.   Bunghoooooooooooooooooooolio.  Bunghooooooooolio.  My bunghole says: ďBrippitta brippitta bloppta ptththththhhththh plop plop plop plop plop plopploploploploploploploploploplop.Ē


Hereís how mature I am.  Sometimes, at work, Iíll walk around with a roll of toilet paper and just keep it with me.  People will say, ďWhatís with the t.p.?Ē or ďWhy do you have a roll of toilet paper?Ē  And I say, ďJust in case.Ē  Yes, I would like to buy this house.  Yes, you may rent the guest bedroom from me.  Buy a house.  Yeah, sure.  Look: hereís a quarter, buy a clue.


It has to be me.  And why would I even buy a house.  Iím a single guy.  Iím only twenty-two.  Iíve only been living on my own for half a year.  Iíve only been out of school for seventeen months.  I donít even know if I want to live here for a time where buying a house would be feasible.  Maybe I want to move to Canada.  Put some American-sized quarter dents in walls when some Canadian team beats an American team.  Those are some safe ass walls, my friend.  Not an imperfection to be made.




Copyright © 2001 John Lemut