Paper Trail

Sometimes I question my TP technique.

But then I remember how silly the other techniques are. You see, I’ve heard tell of people out there who use a TP method I think is both absurd and irresponsible, but every once in a while I wonder if maybe, just maybe, that method would work better than my current wrap-and-fold technique.

Luckily, I always come to my senses in time.

Now, I’m sure that the people who use this weird method of crack-spackle removal don’t do it because they’re devil worshippers, I’m sure they’re nice people who just don’t realize the danger their immortal souls are in every time they go to the bathroom. But anyone who uses the method I like to call “The Brady” is in for a big surprise come judgment day.

And I’m not talking a good surprise, like chocolate cake, either.

For those of you who might not know, The Brady method involves gathering up some TP in your hand and just bunching it up willy-nilly for the big ole’ wipe. Not only do I frown upon this method for its overindulgence of two-ply, I also don’t like it because it just sounds so messy. Think about it, you’re taking a wad of bunched up TP in your fist, sticking in a place you will never see with your own eyes and praying your hand is protected as you clean steaming fresh poopy from yourself.

Now to me, that sounds awfully dangerous.

I mean, what if you failed to wad the paper up properly and there was an area of your hand exposed to your foul detritus as you did the reach around? You wouldn’t know the danger you were in until after you felt the stinky, warm squishy with your own hand.

And what if you had tacos the night before?

You’d spend the rest of the day trying to avoid touching anything and everyone while surreptitiously sniffing your hand and hoping against hope that the cheap soap your office always buys for the public restroom would manage to remove the evidence of your bad TP technique. And what do you think would happen if someone should notice that you kept sniffing your smelly hand all day at the office? They’d laugh at you. And point. And call you Poopsniffer behind your back.

And then the cute receptionist would never date you. Ever.