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What happens when you run out of butwipe and your
X-NEWS: camins rec.humor: 1181
Path: spang.Camosun.BC.CA!news.UVic.CA!ubc-cs!uw-beaver!cornell!batcomputer!munnari.oz.au!uunet!compw.ac.nz!waikato.ac.nz!spt
From: [email protected] (Simon Travaglia)
Newsgroups: rec.humor
Subject: Trip to the Toilet
Message-ID: <[email protected]>
Date: 22 Apr 92 11:48:25 +1200
Organization: University of Waikato Computer Centre
Lines: 83
So I'm sitting on the shithouse right, after having a sheerly magnificent crap
and I'm feeling how you feel after a body motion - you know, kind of serene
and unstressed - pacified you might say. (It's not just crapping that does
this of course, but run with me on this one - I'M FEELING GOOD.)
James Brown good.
I've just done the Grogan equivalent of birthing Spain, and it felt like
bashing a handful of hot gravel through a funnel - Painful; but now, coming
down from the high (so to speak) I'm ready to try to stand. The knees almost
collapse, but manage to hold me as I reach for the paper...
...that isn't there...
I HATE IT WHEN THAT HAPPENS!
It ALWAYS runs out on me - never on anyone else, always bloody me. I bet my
flatmates just roll it into the bowl while they're having a piss, just to trap
me or something. IT PISSES ME OFF!
But I REALLY hate it when I've had double-dysentry, which is about as revolting
as double-jeopardy, only it doesn't hurt for as long, and of course I'm covered
in sweat and (now) crap, and all I want to do is wipe off and crawl to bed to
recover - and there's no bloody paper.
(Prepare for bad words)
I MEAN TO SAY, HOW BLOODY DIFFICULT IS IT FOR A FLATMATE - ANY BLOODY FLATMATE,
I DON'T CARE WHO - TO PUT A NEW BOG ROLL IN THE SHITHOUSE WHEN THEY'VE FINISHED
WITH IT?? FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE, THAT'S WHAT IT IS!!!! IF I DON'T DO IT, NO-ONE
BLOODY WILL!
(Back to normal now)
So now I've got 4 options - 1. Don't wipe my bum at all - (what a dirty little
horror I am), 2. Walk thru the house with my trou down to get a new roll (NOT
an option if we have visitors in the house), 3. Tear up the cardboard roll and
try and trowel my backside clear whilst avoiding paper cuts, or lastly 4. Walk
with the trousers UP to get the new paper [This last option is particularly
cruel, as the byproduct (skidmarked jockey shorts) is truly horrific if they
fall out of the washing basket on the kitchen floor in front of the flatmate
- he'll pretend to ignore it, but the moment I'm gone he's on the phone to all
our friends telling them how atrocious my personal hygenie is, and I'll have
to leave the country and live in a grass tent till the memory dies down.]
Anyway, I've got to make a decision fast, I've got about another minute before
my flatmates think I'm having a wank - then I get the strange looks when I get
back into the lounge - "Yeah, sure, paper ran out...... Right.... Sure..."
I decide to choose option #2.
It's sort of like a commando raid - I plan the trip, suss out the route and
assess (from memory) any pitfalls for the trip - "Open the door, check for
anyone - listen to find their relative positions in the house, run to the
bathroom cupboard, grab a bog roll, check for anyone again, sprint back to
the room, slam the door, SAFE HOME!"
The trip's planned better than the hostage recovery in Iraq - Ok, that's not
saying much but I think I stand a reasonable chance...
So anyway, I'm about to run the gauntlet to the shithouse. Under starters
orders... I open the door a crack to find out where the flatmates are... . ..
The kitchen and the garage...
I'M OFF!!! (I can say that again)
Out the door, pants round the ankles (please don't let me trip and knock
myself out, please let the flatmate's girlfriends be gone, please don't let a
religious group come to the door and see me waving at them with my privates
while I run..., etc, etc is wizzing thru my mind as I get to the bathroom. I
slam the door - SAFE ON TWO!)
--
_______________________----------------------------* >splutter<
____/ This trailer will almost certainly self-destruct in a given, finite
/ \ amount of time. It contains a secret message disguised as drivel.
| BOMB | Disclaimer: Yep. I should have known better.
\____/ Simon Travaglia, [email protected] Ph: 064-7-838-4008 Fax: 838-4066
University of Waikato, Private Bag 3105, Hamilton, New Zealand.
The cynic who doesn't believe in anything still wants you to believe him.
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