life

To the Douche, to the Douche, to the Mother Fucking Douche.

An open letter to the person who knows that they used the last of the toilet paper in the public bathroom.

Ahem.

I know that life is very hard, being so important.  You’re on the go, you’re stressed, you’re super tired from pulling all nighters trying hard to get our maps made.  Your boss is breathing down your neck, and you havent stopped to eat since 5 this morning.  Just this one little break to pee must have taken scheduling of the most epic variety.  I know, its tough to be you.

Or at least, this had better describe you.

Because if it doesnt, you are the most insensitive fuck around.

I mean seriously!  You must have known that you took the last of the fucking toilet paper!.  You were sitting there, doing your business, turned to grab a nice handful of tp, and poof!  The roll is out!  Egads!  It must have taken you by surprise that you were happily pulling away only to realize that the supply has ended without you making any effort to end it.  What was the first clue?  The “rrripppp” that accompanies tearing that last glued square from the cardboard roll?  Or the frayed edges of precious 2 ply that laid in your hand?

I had to resort to using those incredibly stupid toilet seat covers to dry my drippy twat.  Do you know how much those hurt?  It has the consistency, and absorbency, of wax paper.  With none of the smoothness.  Its like taking a magazine page, balling it up, and rubbing it vigorously against your private parts.  Tell me that doesnt hurt!

I know, I know, I can always check the damn stall before pissing, but in my “present condition”, there is not much that can abate that unrelenting need to let the dam burst.  I often run into a stall after realizing that I’ve waited just a tad too long between trips.  I should work on that.

I guess I could have just replaced my clothing and gone on with my day… wet cooch and all.  But I’m not that kind of person.  Plus, urinary tract infections cannot possibly be good in, again, my “present condition”.  So, I’d rather not walk around with a moist crotch, thank you very much.

And you, yourself, are a woman!  You know that pee is not a good thing to smell like!  You know the horror of realizing that you are out of our jailer’s best!  What was I to do if I’d had to go #2!?  Oh the horror!

I, being the notoriously nice person that I am (at least in person, in print I’m a right whore), I pumped the paper towel dispenser and left a cushy roll of chunky brown recycler’s grade for the next unsuspecting person.  It’s gonna hurt to use, but at least it’ll be more absorbent than plastic.

Let this be a lesson to you all!  Always leave a replacement in the bathroom stall when you’ve exhausted all the toilet paper available.  The person who comes after you will be not be too pleased to rub their cunt with sisal rope.

Discussion

4 responses to ‘To the Douche, to the Douche, to the Mother Fucking Douche.

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