At my house, we run through toilet like OJ running from the law. Our collective colons are pumping just find. A couple of weeks ago, I found myself, compromised on my toilet, realizing too late that the tissue roll was empty. I dug the other empty rolls out of the trash, carefully plying the wispy remains of paper off the rolls. It would have to do, I thought, until I could buy some more.
First, I had a doctor's appointment. Just the dermatologist. Surely, my bum would not come into play; the doctor was checking out a suspicious spot on my face. The visit was moving along nicely, the spot nothing to be concerned about, when to my horror, the Physician's Assistant asked if she could look at my bum. More precisely, in between my butt cheeks. "Not today," was what I should have said, but instead, I stupidly gave her permission. She took a peek, but thankfully didn't comment on my heinie hygiene.
I left there, my tail between my legs, and sped to Target for two mega packs of TP. Never again.