It happened again.
A stench so unformidable, yet familiar, lingered in the air.
The chatter of the public heard from a distance was guaranteed not so distant. The pressure of the ticking clock grew as the seconds turned to minutes.
I was taking a dump during my break at work.
I rushed myself, following the procedure I always do when it comes to public dumping (flush beforehand to test the toilet, flush for every dump and after I wipe), and that’s when it happened.
I always laughed at the idea of the situation; the ridiculousness of the scenario…and I finally found myself at the (butt) end of a joke. I came to the last three sheets of toilet paper.
It was three sheets. Three. Fucking. Sheets. Not necessarily a hail mary (that’s a one sheeter shitter), but definitely a predicament. I folded it for durability and security to not soil my hands.
In my hands, in my hands again.
With no confidence, I brought the poor excuse for wiping material to my cheeks. But fear stopped me in my tracks. Was I ready to use this? I had to fully plan out every wipe. I had two rounds TOPS with the folded three sheeter, with folding it again, and that’s with a high risk of contaminating my hands.
Then I had the brilliant idea!
Shit, Jerico, just call the store from your phone! It’d be one hell of a funny story but you could get someone to grab you some toilet paper!
I did the awkward shuffle with my pants down to grab my phone. Not in the right pocket, which is fine cause it’s usually not there. Okay. Check the left pocket…
Utter. Fear.
Nothing. Not there. My phone is on the table in the backroom.
At this particular moment, the trolling fates have called upon me to partake in their ritual of toilet humor embarrassment. And they’re having a fucking ball.
This is the part where I imagine the scenario I’ve always joked about, where you do the awkward box step with your pants down to your ankles, moving with desperation to a destination that will hopefully have solitude in the form of ass wiping material. And though you move with desperation, you pray that you don’t have any excess fecal matter from your pooper that could run the risk of following the rules of gravity and trickle down your legs.
But I didn’t submit to the box step. I bit the bullet. I looked the fearsome dog that is fear itself in the eye and accepted the possible consequences for my blind recklessness mistaken for pure confidence. I gave myself a pep talk. I became my own hypeman.
I was ready to do what needed to be done. It was about to go down. History was going to be made. Books will be written about this exact moment and people will shout my name as a source of inspiration for when they find themselves in the great turmoil of not having toilet paper.
But then by chance, I thought…yup.
There was a backup roll. Just shoved all the way up the dispenser where you can’t see it.
But there was a lesson to be learned here: always have faith. And just like faith…you can’t always see it, but it’s there. And if it’s not, then the last person to poop screwed you over. Or better yet, left you shit out of luck.
Jerico J Says 