THIS IS A RE-POST FROM BITCHIN & STUFF
So, in the grandest tradition, I bring to you a very disrceet subject; Toilet Paper.
Let me take you aside and talk for a second here. I just have to get this out as it's driving me, along with the bugs and slug, nuts. I do not for the life of me, understand how we can put a man on the moon, create a new liver from Stem Cells but we can't make nice panty hose that don't run and we can't make toilet paper that doesn't leave you with little balls. I used to use Scots, as it left you with the least amount of balls but it's like wiping with sandpaper. My sister buys those Fallout Shelter size packages of Charmin. OMG, do I hate this shit. It doesn't leave balls so much as a whole spread of pieces that make you itch. Cottonelle, leaves big pieces that makes you want to go shave yourself like a poodles ass. I can't stand it and it's gross. The French were beyond their times when they came up with the Bidet. A wonderful apparatus which gives you a cleansing rinse. But America just never caught on except in the finer restaurants and such and that's only cause they're showing off. But even with a Bidet, you get a wet ass. I don't know about you but it's not a good feeling to me to have a wet ass with clothes on. No clothes, wet ass is ok. So, what can we do here, I'm dead serious? I'm just sick to death from this. Not that I've been lucky in the past 8 months but let's say Mr. Right walks through the door tomorrow. I bump into him at the grocery store, of course in the fruit and vegetables section. We make eye contact and there is an immediate chemistry, you could cut the vibes with a knife they're so thick. There's a smog of testosterone in the air and the hormones are raging.Like a Lion, he smells it and circles around. Like a Lioness, I play coyly with a carrot unaware of the implication of it's Phallic. He touches a ripe melon, ever so gently caressing it's skin, squeezing, fondling. He throws his long black hair back and looks at me wantingly with his dark Obsidian eyes, scanning my body, undressing me without lifting a finger. I let the strap to my dress fall off my shoulder and cock my head to the side, allowing him to veiw my neck and follow it back to my arched back. Without a word, I follow him to his car and get in. He touches my knee, it sends a spark up to my nether regions of want and desire. He carries me to his bungalow and places me on the bed, neatly arranging the pillow under my head. He runs his hand down my leg till he reaches my foot and removes my stiletto, then the other. He climbs up to my lips with prowess and gently kisses me, a sweet taste left on my lips as he works his way down my neck, to my chest and he begins to unbutton my dress, exposing my large pert breasts. He touches and greets my nipples like an old lover, knowingly and hauntingly familiar. He opens my dress even further, gradually, taunting me with pleasure. He rips my panties off and throws them across the room. My womanhood, masked only by a wisp of hair is now crying out for him to have his way with me. He touches the inside of my thighs, parting them and begins to nibble on my passion fruit, the embers burning inside me, when...
OMG, he starts spitting out toilet paper balls.
Who do I have to write? My Congressman, the Senate, Bush about my Bush? I hate toilet paper, get the picture?