11/7/97 - Pull My Newspaper

My mother was recently in town to see my new apartment and rearrange everything. This was tough, since I only have about two things, but by putting every fiber of her motherly being into action, she was able to rearrange both of them.

Now, it can be a very tense time when a mother visits her son, because no matter how old he is, there are - let me see how I can phrase this in a manner befitting a family-oriented column such as this - private matters which the boy would like to keep secret from the woman who cleaned his underwear for 18 years. Certainly any red-blooded American male out there knows the routine that the mind goes through as the hours tick down to mommy's arrival. First, the physical inspection of the apartment, so make sure that everything is "in order". Then, the mental checklist is run through five, ten, twenty times, just in case he has forgotten "something".

The "something" I am talking about, of course, is that particular item, or items, to which a growing boy becomes very emotionally attached in his formative years, and with which a certain bond is formed. Ironically, it is this very thing that he will obsess over hiding from his mother, or otherwise risk nearly unbearable embarrassment, or possibly a psychologically debilitating episode rendering him unable to speak or feed himself for years.

Of course by now you've discerned the item to which I am referring. Yes, that's right... Toilet paper.

It's an unwritten code among men. Some of us chant it for hours before an impending maternal visit. "Hide the toilet paper." "Hide the toilet paper." "Don't let her anywhere near that soft, quilted roll of decoratively patterned, freshly scented fabric from heaven."

Anyway, her visit went about as well as could be expected. She came in, rearranged my two things, told me to cut my hair and floss behind my ears or something, and then took off again.

Everything went normally after that. I put my two things back where they were, ordered a pizza, and threw a beer bottle on the floor, so as to recalibrate the "guyness" level of the apartment to its normal levels. Then, of course, it was time to go back to the bathroom to re-mark my own territory, for which I pay $650 a month, because they charge $25 extra per month per cat, those greedy, filthy, rotten bastards. The cats, I mean.

Well, that went well too. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, those dead soldiers deserved a 21-gun salute.

Wait a second. Where the hell is the- OH MY GOD!!!

I had forgotten the Golden- no, make that the Brown Rule, and must have left my precious roll right out there in the open. I felt like an ass. I had hit bottom. I cowered like the butt of a joke. My hopes and dreams, I had wrecked 'em all.

(Get it?)

Anyway, the toilet paper was gone. I always keep it right where most single guys keep it, right there on the sink, or on the back of the toilet. That puts it within easy reaching distance, so you can quickly grab the end, give it a nice throw and a tug, and there in your hands is a perfectly crumpled asteroid of rump-wiping power. But it wasn't there. I searched all over the room (or at least, as much of the room as I could see from my florid cathedra), and was near tears when I finally spotted it.

It was placed on some sort of cylindrical dispensing apparatus which I had not noticed before. It had been horizontally aligned on this plastic device, let's call it a "roller", which prevented the roll from being thrown up into the air, a fundamental step in the aforementioned "throw/tug" technique. Nearing the point of desperation, I noticed that the end of the roll was hanging down from the "roller". I gingerly tugged at the end, and the roller, almost magically, began to spin longitudinally, letting loose a long strip of the coveted, aloe-vera-lotioned squares! What an incredible invention I had discovered!

But just as soon as I began celebrating my victory, I became awash in fear, repulsion, and disgust, as I continued to stare at the toilet paper roll attached to the wall.

In a grotesque display of disrespect, my well-meaning, but obviously satanic, demon-possessed mother had hung the toilet paper from the BACK. In case anyone cares, this is the WRONG WAY. Everybody knows that toilet paper is supposed to hang from the front. This has always been, and will always be the case. When I see people hanging it from the back, I can only assume that they were the subject of some chemical warfare tests conducted by the U.S. Army.

The main argument I hear for hanging from the back is that "It's easier," (they whine, in that whimpering, weasely voice of theirs) "- to roll it back up again." While I respect the fervency with which they pursue this misguided line of thinking, I must nevertheless declare that they are the dumbest forms of life ever to walk the planet, including algae. I will, upon special request, explain in detail why this is a ridiculous argument, but if you're reading this column, it probably means you're a reasonably intelligent person, and therefore need no such explanation.

Yes, I know algae doesn't walk. Shut up.

Back to our story, though. This traumatic occurrence has driven me out of my own home, and now to void myself of waste products, I for the most part only use the facilities at my place of work, that being the Washington ("Well, at least the sports section is decent.") Post. Which brings me to the point of this particular story.

I have used a lot of workplace bathrooms in my time. And I've worked in some pretty wacky places. Minnetonka, Minnesota. Miami, Florida. Some nondescript place in Texas between Dallas and Fort Worth. But my friends, I have something significant to report to you...

Perhaps it's something in the cafeteria downstairs, or the lead in the air from all the old press plates that are stored somewhere in this (err- I mean, THAT. I am of course not writing this at my desk.) building, but the Washington Post, yes, the world's third largest newspaper, the place where millions of people get their information first thing in the morning, absolutely has the most gassy employees in the world.

I've never heard such monstrous gas blasts in my entire life. Perhaps the people who work here also have mothers that hang their toilet paper the wrong way, forcing them to "hold it in" all night until they can relax in the repose of the tiled bathroom stalls of their employer.

Whatever the cause, though, nothing can match the apprehension I feel when I'm sitting in my stall (the far one on the left, stay out), and I hear the bathroom door swing open, for it has undoubtedly let advance a veritable zeppelin of quiescent flatulence, soon to be unleashed on the unsuspecting porcelain perch.

I hear the footsteps. I hear the creak of the stall door. I hear the clink of the belt buckle as it hits the linoleum. And then...

During a tour of the building, weeks earlier, we were handed souvenir earplugs, which many employees supposedly wear to protect their ears from the clamorous cacophony of the pressing machines.

But I suddenly learn the truth, as the walls shake with the colonic detonation achieved by my stall-neighbor.

I would not be a bit surprised if this phenomenon could be found in all the great newspapers of our land. So think about THAT the next time you flip through the funnies. Think about all the blood, sweat, tears, and especially farts that went into producing that scroll which you peruse as you sip your morning coffee and chew on that bagel. You might just learn something.

Or, you might just barf.

Well, at least they hang the goddamn toilet paper the right way.

(Bonus Quiz: What the hell does "florid cathedra" mean?)

Pinback's Web Central

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