My mother is a big, hairy gorilla. That’s right, stay with me. She’s an ape.
If you ask her about it, she claims to be of a young evolutionary age. Her name is Simeon. She was born in a jungle, she fishes ants out of logs with sticks and she has a hairy back like all the other gorillas.
She talks to me using the monkey sign language that she learned at the institute.
You’re probably wondering where I came from and why I don’t look much like a baby gorilla. First of all, you haven’t seen my hairy back and secondly, my father was a run of the mill banana salesman. Mom was his best customer and paid in full with premium primate lovin’.
Come 'ere, Gorilla Baby...mmmuuah
Thankfully, I only got Dad’s good looks and not his lust for monkey meat.
Dad died when I was just a boy of ape. During one of her sh&t fits, mom accidentally suffocated him with poop. I tried to figure out why she was so mad I got confused when she tried to use her monkey sign language while hurling feces.
I found out later that Dad was cheating on mom with some overgrown chimp named Buttons. After that they sent her to sit behind bars at the zoo.
The zoo keepers try to get her to mate by putting male gorillas in her cage. She mates, but I can’t bear to watch. I can see the pain in her eyes when she’s getting aped from behind.
She told me that she misses Dad and that no other gorilla can take his place. I said, “What about another man?”
A switch flipped. She got so excited that the zoo keepers tazed her. I went to the only place I know to find an ape loving man…the “Miscellaneous Romance” section on Craigslist.
I found my gorilla mom a human man. He is ironically named Evolution. He and my mother, Simeon, have fallen in love. She is going to remarry. I am happy for my monkey mom, but I’m disturbed by Evolution’s motives. It’s a sick thing for a man to lust for a gorilla.
I’m not going to their wedding. My mother went ape shit when she heard this and sent Evolution to come talk to me.
Evolution said to me, “Marriage of man and ape is the natural progression.” To which I replied, “Evolution, you can take your love a step farther, but I won’t have you as a step father.”
I drink eight cups of coffee a day and, at least, a diet cola. I masturbate twice on the hour every hour and watch TV for dozens of hours on end. If I have one beer, there’s a good chance I’ll have all of the beer.
I have what some people might call an addictive personality (and, consequently, I also have a heart condition known as bad-ass heart condition; it’s terminal).
This namesake doesn’t impede me one bit. I’m a big fan of going all out whenever I can. It’s expensive and it’s dangerous, but it’s not my gripe.
I love taking it to the limit time after time. My problem is that I am an all-or-nothing kind of guy. If there’s beer in your fridge, I drink it. If there’s food on your plate, I eat it.
In fact, one time I ate 50 hot wings in a boned-meat eating competition from my competitor’s bowl because he hadn’t shown up yet…he won. My asshole was so raw the next day from pooping hot fire that I had to buy a 20lb. bag of ice to cool my poop shoot. I would have bought the 50lb. bag but they were out.
Unfortunately, gorging my fat face ends with beer bottles and bird parts. When the product of consumption is healthy or educational, I quit it.
I gave up exercising after I learned how hard it was. I took some college class for a time, but it wasn’t for me. I am a novice guitar holder at best. You couldn’t pay me enough to participate in a veggie eating contest.
And this is confusing to me. It strikes me as odd that I gorge on crap but not on things that are inherently good for me. This leads me to believe that the things that are inherently good for me aren’t.
Besides, if my body’s natural rhythm is thrown off by a bag of carrots, maybe I shouldn’t be eating them. And that’s what I’m going to do.
Fueling my addictions is just that; fuel. And I need fuel to go…to couch and TV. What doesn’t kill me only makes me want more. Does anybody want to buy my guitar?
We’re all so proud of our offspring when they accomplish something monumental. For some, it’s graduating from college or narrowly escaping an arrest for public indecentcy. For me, however, monumental is measured in bodily discharges and today I am brimming over my cat’s vomitty achievement.
I admit that some of my most shining moments come at the bombastic release of gas from my body. I’m even more proud when the gas turns solid in a process called sh*tting my pants. The sight of a giant, ghastly poop will cheer me up any day of the week.
But when I look down and see with thine own two eye parts what my cat, Tookie, has done today, I shed a tear of pride. Today Tookie puked a heaping helping of cat guts and it was huge. It was chocked full of Friskies, dead mice bones and his favorite treats, Whisker Lickens. This kid has talent and I’m proud to say he’s mine. Good work, cat.
I tend to error on the side of caution. When I step out in the rain, I bring a wooden umbrella. When I fart in the sheets I don’t wiggle around afterward. So it troubles me to tell you and the rest of the world that I’m frickin crazy. I’m not crazy like gang bang my virgin asshole and cum on my face with you and twenty-eight of your closest associates. My friend did that once; that sh*t is nuts and now I she can’t ride a bicycle. I’m not even homeless people crazy or cat-lady crazy.
No, my problem is that I am starting to losing my mind. It started a few months ago. Mentally, things just didn’t seem right. I was having hallucinations and fondling my poops in the toilet. I’ve never done that stuff that much. Just to make sure that I was really going mental, I gave it a couple of months. Similar to your Alzheimer stricken grandfather, I’d have good days and bad days (I got gang banged, remember?). The test worked. After three months, I figured out that I hadn’t been feeling right.
I told my wife and she confirmed my senility and suggested/demanded that I seek help. I did. I went to a doctor and she gave me some pills and advice…”don’t take all the pills at once.” It was funny, you had to be there. I began taking the pills just the other day when I lashed out and had a huge fight with my wife. She was so angry and frustrated with my new crazy behavior that she grabbed my pills and flushed them all down the toilet (against the doctor’s wishes, no less). Today, I’m without my pills and the toilet has been vomiting all night and I can’t stop fondling the poopies that come out. I need assistance. I’m sick! Sick I tells ya’!
Do you think I’m crazy? This stuff has really been happening. What do you think I should do? Help, please.
We’ve all ventured out into the expanses of the world gleefully returning full of knowledge. Such life lessons always prove to be invigorating and help guide us through life’s meaningless journies. Here are 10 tidbits that I’ve picked up along the way that I remember everyday:
He ate a bunch of rabies ridden clams and wants a kiss
10. “Wild animals don’t make good house pets” – We tried keeping a wild raccoon once. His name was Ricki; Ricki the Raccoon. He ate all of our mollusks and gave our cat the worms.
8. ”Poop stays in the toilet” – It certainly doesn’t belong in my hands or mouth. It took me months to get the stains out of my moustache.
7. “Gay-for-pay is straight” – Life is about doing what you love, not loving what you do. Don’t define yourself based on one experience you had during your “best years”. You’ll just end up confused; ass-a-throbin’.
6. “Pack it in, pack it out” – Showing respect for the world outside of yourself will convey just how incredibly unselfish you are. And isn’t that what it’s about…You?
5. “Cock, step, punch” – I learned this playing high school football. You have to stay low and maintain good technique. Don’t forget to throw out some “pass” and “ball” calls, too.
4. ”If she looks like a man and she talks like a man, she’s alright with me” – Expanding your horizons starts with accepting people for who they are, who they’re not, and who you thought they think that they thought you were.
3. ”Two hands when you’re learning” (thanks Brandon!) – Whether it’s riding a bike or dishing out your first “blowie”, two hands when you’re learning will keep you working hard towards your goals.
2. “Always come prepared” – Preparation is the key to success. Just like bringing a joke book to a gun fight, kids are a terrible mistake. Wrap your (or your partner’s) ding dong up in a condom and you’ll avoid my mother’s 3rd and 4th mistakes (me and my twin)
-And Finally-
1. “There’s no such thing as too much lube” – Designated lubricants like veggie oil, silicon based slickers, lotion, spit and telephone books all exponentially increase fun.
He's as good as dead anyway; he's not even wearing a helmet
Here is a very simple method to destroy a fly using only your bare hands. This act will not only kill the fly, but also teach valuable lessons to his next of kin. C’mon, really? You’re having second thoughts. Don’t think of his family. Just do it. He’s dirty. You know where he’s been: poop, vomit, trash. And that was just breakfast. He’s spreading disease on you. Ew. Grow a pair and kill him. Everyone else is doing it and here’s how…For this task, you’ll need a set of hands. You’ll also need enough patience to wait for a good moment to strike. For this to work, there’ll need to be a single fly bothering you; more than one and it’s a sign you’re dead and rotting. Usually, if you’re focused at work or peacefully enjoying the day, one will come along. When you are sufficiently bothered, you’ll need to pretend that you don’t care that the fly is buzzing around. Don’t flail as you will only briefly scare it away, thus making the annoyance last longer. Act naturally and he’s sure to fall into your trap. Once he’s comfortable flying near you, you may start the procedure. First, see where he likes to go. In the two flies I’ve ever dealt with liked my skin. Maybe it’s because I smell like sweat and garbage. When I gently shooed them away, they would fly up, circle in the air, and then land on my desk. Based on these experiences, I undoubtedly say that all flies will repeat this. Next, you’ll need to position yourself in a way that you can easily clap your hands together directly above the fly. Now, wait for him to land. When he settles on the desk, slowly move your spread hands about 3 inch above him. He should be centered between your soon-to-be-clapping/killing hands. Finally, when he takes off, which he will…Clap! If you missed, repeat this process until the bugger is dead. Ta da! Congratulations! You’ve just committed murder.
I took a picture of my perineum using a mirror. This isn't it.
There are a lot of things out there that keep me indoors and away from windows. My life revolves around avoiding things that scare me and wearing hair nets. As much as I’ve tried to overcome some of my most basic fears, I always find ways to reinforce them. The following is a compilation of the 10 worst times I’ve ever been scared:
10. My poop turned blue for three days after eating TCBY’s Arthur the Aardvark’s Cotton Candy flavored frozen yogurt.
9. After snapping some voyeuristic pictures behind a circus tent, I was mauled by a black bear.
8. I was unable to take back a pair of denim jeans at the Gap. Now I just keep things.
7. I got a bee sting on my boner. (Thank you, Johnny & J-Pa)
6. I cut my perineum (see left; “incision”) on a barbed-wire fence while tobogganing in France. I had to wear a heavy flow maxi-pad for a week. (And that’s the closest I’ve ever been to a woman.)
5. I was held at knife point at a McDonald’s drive-thru for sarcastically ordering a “Crappy Meal”.
4. I held a pee in so long playing the drinking game Edward Forty Hands that urine sprayed out of my nipples.
3. My mother adopted me from my grandmother.
2. Thinking I had found the last morsel of food in my house, I once ate a lot of cat food.
-And Finally-
1. A maniacal and murderous clown named Adam who lives in a brightly colored school bus parked in a mountain meadow is stalking me via MySpace. (My real name is Liz)
My knowledge is limited (there’s not much room for argument about that). But in attempt to capture more information about the world, I have curiosities that conjure up questions. These questions are usually so inane that they don’t warrant real answers. I’m looking for something more entertaining than truth…I’m looking for hypotheticals. I’m mostly interested in speculation. If you’re not asking “what if?”, you’re not capturing all the information, whether it’s logical or not. What is knowledge more than the thoughts a person believes in?
Today, I’m interested in gaining insight into the physics of thongs. More specifically, the “what ifs” of thongs. Imagine a woman wearing a pair of thong under-panties. For the sake of this thought experiment she is in a forest wearing a thong; there are no pants, no bra, only high heels; her large tan breasts with their perfectly sized and symmetrical nipples are exposed; she has nice hair. What happens when she craps herself wearing a thong? My first thought is that the poop hits the thong underwear and splits directly in half like a cheese slicer through sharp cheddar, thus, making two separate piles of dump on the ground. But that might only happen if she’s squatting.
What if she’s standing up? I suspect that the poop might split within the confines of the thong area only to be pushed back together again by the pressure of her cheeks. The mess created by this set of events could be demolish my ability to watch her. If she does this into a cup with another girl there to drink it, however, it could become an internet sensation. There a lot of things to think about here. Do girls actually poop? My sources tell me no. Judging by the smell of my mom’s farts, that might not be true. There are too many questions. These are just things to think about. I will just stick with what I want to believe. And that is naked girls in thongs should do whatever they want as long as they don’t mind me taking notes.
There are few places in Las Vegas more worthy of a stay than at the Excalibur Hotel and Casino. In the past six years of my life I have spent many Red Bull/Vodka induced sleepless nights on the premises rolling hot dice and spraying myself for bed bugs. Games you will be sure not to lose.
I highly recommend partaking in the Australian-inspired all male review, Thunder from Down Under. Nothing is surer to get the joey out of your pouch like a ninety minute strip tease of strapping young blokes.
Excalibur’s fine entertainment reaches far beyond the twenty man-thongs in the dungeon. There are a host of actors to serve thine patrons the frostiest of brewed beverages and cash in thine earnings. “Would thy dainty wench careth for thine frostiest Corona? Please chance thine lucky hand at a gameth of Black Jack, my liege.”
In addition to the wild casino action, you may test your luck at the myriad of arcades just below the casino floor. My favorite is the ATM game; it pays out almost every time.
Don’t press your luck too much and be sure to line your ice bucket with plastic. Many a craps have been played there. So good luck to you and yours. And remember: What happens at Excalibur, costs $400 to abort.
I’m curious about retards but I’m scared to approach them. I see Down Syndrome people or wheel-abouts (my expression for the mentally and physically doomed) and my heart aches.
I feel so bad that I can’t even talk to them. I know if I did I would slip up and start asking them math related questions. I weep inside when I see a bus of them pull up outside the mall’s food court.
What, if anything, are they thinking? Do you think that their thought processes are like those of animals?
I heard this argument once that animals don’t have the ability to feel or communicate with others. One justification for slaughtering cows or chickens to eat is that they can’t feel the pain because they’re somehow immune.
Are retards like that? Are they immune to pain? If they can’t feel anything or communicate effectively, do they want to live? Should we eat them?
We’d have to kill them first. According to my speculation, they won’t feel it. Most wouldn’t be able to tell anyone about the injustice they were suffering at the feed lots because they couldn’t comprehend the situation. They wouldn’t know any different.
I can see them getting upset trying to think about the way things could be or couldn’t be or just….UGH, poop! They could just vent their frustrations with poop throwing/eating contests. “Do you smell that, honey? I think they just wrangled up some more ‘tards for slaughter.”
I wonder what they taste like. If only I wasn’t so scared to ask them, they could probably tell me.
Yeah, I shard. So what? If you ask me, it smells like most everyone else does, too. Have you ever been on a bus? This isn’t about that. This is a story. And it begins now….The last time I really crapped my pants, I was about 5 years old. It was just after lunch on a sunny summer afternoon. I finished a bowl of grape nuts and an apple. At that point, I had just recently become a graduate of Pull-Ups for Young Adults Diapers. I was proud then. It wasn’t much before that day that I had become mature enough to don a freshly minted pair of Mighty Mouse underoos. They were equipped with a fancy flap that, given the right circumstances of jarring and bouncing, could expose my dinger to a slew of people. I thought I was becoming a man, a feeling that I wouldn’t realize again until late into my twenties.
My neighborhood was filled with all sorts of kids around my age. During the summer we would play baseball in the defunkity cul-de-sac in front of my house. There were usually enough kids on the block to get a full field of fielders and a batter or two. We never needed outfielders. Not only were all the kids too weak and gay to power the ball into any kind of outer field, but where the outfield existed, stood a house. Like I said, it was a defunkity sac. We played a version of homerun derby that may have been cooked up in a South American guerilla camp. There was a lot of running and yelling and kidnapping, but never any fun. Actually, it was a lot of fun. Later on in my youth, I would become an incredible slugger; able to rock a tennis ball with a rake handle across the sac and over the neighbor’s house on any day of the week.
At the bright eyed age of five, filled with fiber and milk, I stumbled out of my house to find a gathering of minors and their colleagues. They had organized a game that we all knew well. We got on to playing. As the game started, I began to notice some of the early warning signs inside my body of a poop trying to make its escape out of my anus. I had a terrible case of the bubble guts and mud butt. Upset stomach paired with a sweaty ass. It was coming on slow but steady. I knew that I would soon need to make use of the latrine nearly 50 yards away.
So, like most people do, I weighed my options. I either had to stop having fun and sit inside for 10 minutes while I made good on the toilet or I’d continue to have fun and not worry about the consequences. Well the grumbling continued and I felt terrible until I was called up to bat. It’s like you can kick a kid in the face and insult him until he cries but the minute you give him a piece of candy, everything is all right. For the moment, everything seemed to be gravy. I said to myself, “just one quick swing of the bat and a trot around the bases and I would be on my way. After all, the bathroom was just beyond home plate.”
I got up to bat ready to crush the perfect pitch. So, I sat on a pitch. And another. And another. And as I waited for which pitch I wanted to rock into tomorrow, I began to realize that I was not going to make it that far. The pitch came and I took a cut. It was at that point my procrastination caught up with me. Working in perfect unison, my gut and butt squeezed and pushed. The bat went flying and I ran towards the house only to feel a bread size loaf fill my pants. As I jogged, holding my ass, I felt what seemed to be a warm, freshly baked muffin trickle out of my shorts and down my leg onto the concrete. I did it. I crapped my pants. And the driveway, too, apparently.
We all poop. I think there’s a book about it. I poop as well. Wanted to get that out there. Just like everything else, there are style points for pooping. You can be good at it like Justin Timberlake (his smell like campfire and summertime rain), or you can be bad at it like Ricki Lake (she wipes with kittens). Something that I hadn’t really considered until college is that there is a right and wrong way to drop a deuce and it goes way beyond the act of pooping; Do you read in there? How long does it take you? Do you leave marks in the bowl? How do you wipe? These are all very important, albeit, stupid questions that we have to ask so that we can judge other people. Why do you think people are afraid to crap in public toilets? That’s right…I’m standing just beyond the door of your stall judging you with a tape recorder, pen and paper for notes, Doritos, and a smirk…You’re doing it wrong and it smells awful. For the love of God! What did you eat? Cotton candy ice cream and chimpanzee diapers? Yeah, the zoo is fun, but dude…ech.
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that any one way of pooping is better than another because they’re all terrible. What is ultimately important is that you maintain good energy and poop with style and a good focus. Here are a few tricks (along with anecdotes telling their origins) that I’ve picked up along the way that will make your friends think you’re a stylin slick sh*tter and king of the throne.
It’s about the wipe:
See, throughout my younger days, I had wiping problems. My game was an incomplete and ineffective methodology that I must have been born with because my mother, even to this day, has no idea where I learned that technique. The ridiculous wiping campaign my parents put me through to fix the mess was embarrassing and complicated. If you can imagine the Charmin commercial with the bears in the woods cleaning out their fur traps and the screen cuts to a picture of a piece of damp toilet paper dragging a brick, then you can understand the damage I was doing to my under garments. My pants are filled with sagging, wet, furry bricks. (check out the 10 sec. mark)
Enter my good friend, Teddy Po. In a typical poop related convo, wiping technique came up. “Don’t you just wad up a bunch of toilet paper and wipe once, leaving your grease trap lubed for the next time?” I asked. His answer was so profound it has stayed with me for all of these years. He said, “What you do is you take about 4 or 8 squares and you fold them neatly; wipe once. Fold the tarnished side together and wipe again with the clean side.” This made perfect sense. Teddy Po is a clever and thrifty guy. What better way to stretch a buck then by saving on plentiful and inexpensive toilet paper? I get like 8 wipes out of 1 pull of toilet paper. I have to say that this method is tried and true and in a pinch is highly effective. I like to shower when it’s convenient, and if I’ve got the time and the shower, I’m washing, rinsing and repeating.
Curt is another specimen who’s advice fascinated me. Have you ever heard of sitting down to wipe? I hadn’t until, once again, it came up in a scat chat. Curt explained what standing up to wipe meant to him using sandwich logic. “You stand up and your ass cheeks smash together like a grilled cheese in a panini press. Try pulling your cheeks apart and you might as well be looking at a four-year-old’s finger painted version of a brown butterfly.” He said just try the technique once in the seated position (And I always do…ladies?). Just like Curt, it’s a little feminine and a little lazy. He got one thing straight; it makes clean up a breeze and it tickles your junk hole in a way that only a small rodent could.
Jet Magazine...it's a black thing
I worked with the DOM (Dirty Old Man – He used to show me what he’d do to all the white girls if he were 20 years younger, I’m a visual learner) and he loved wet wipes . Now I love them, too. He used to carry this little purse thing with a copy of the latest edition of Jet magazine and a pack of unscented wipes. In explaining it, he said once, “After using the wipes I’d be clean a nuff. I’d let some little skank ho lick my butt.” Cleaning properly was a courtesy he always encouraged.
Timing
Timing is everything. The difference between a couple sh*tty minutes can really have people wondering what you’re doing in there. Somehow, speculation always has you doing something worse than pooping. While I was duking at a party, a rumor was started once that I was masturbating on a girl covered in throw ups. I didn’t even do that until after the party and I think it was consensual. Depending on the situation, your time in the bathroom could be considered inappropriate.
This is what my brother looks like. Why is he so yellow?
My brother, Milhouse, has the uncontrollable urge to build elaborate ass forts of toilet paper on the seat any time he has to drop trou. When we lived together he was using like 4 rolls a day and constantly clogging the toilet. I knew because the plunger handle was always covered in sh*t. These forts take precious time from his actual pooping routine. He might go into the bathroom for 30 minutes, 20 of which are spent building and flushing. It took three years of probing him to find out what he was doing in there and what was happening to the plunger. There are days when I wished I’d never known.
Some folks like to read on the can. It’s really a bad habit. Keeping it to a magazine article is fine, but once you slip into book territory, you’re really setting yourself up for criticism, and ultimately loneliness. My advice; save the book reading for your alone time when you’ve got Time to Kill. (See what I did there? One phrase, double meaning.)
Markings
Leaving your stains in the bowl can end relationships. Bowl staining in general is a practice best used by wild animals and cave dwellers. So why should you do it? The answer is that you shouldn’t. Get a scrub brush and clean the bowl. It’s okay, no one checks the scrub brush for dampness. We all check the bowl for marks. If I see someone elses’ sh*t stain, I’ll clean it for you; but I’m nice. Not all people are going to do that for you. Wise up.
What’s it all about
When you go in to take a dump, that should be your main goal. Yes, you can bide your time and multitask, but this is no resume builder. If you want to really shine bright as a poop all-star, you need to focus. No matter how you do it, just do it. Get your sh*t out and get out. The toilet is not an escape; that’s what drugs are for. After all, does your sh*t smell so good that you need to hang out with it forever? Probably not, you’re no Justin Timberlake. If you want your friends to support you for the great dumper that you are, take it from me, don’t let them know that you were in there. Yes, we all poop. But does anyone need to know about it? Sick.
Start 'em young so they're strong enough to huck sh@t really hard
It may not be obvious to all but monkeys didn’t just start throwing poop, OK? It started with one monkey’s dedication to making monkey civilization a better place by analyzing the feces of sick monkeys and making them better.
It’s true that this unrecorded modern-day monkey doctor had acute observations and a great love for poop. Maybe there were undigested grubs or bananas in there that could be devoured. What we equate to typical crazy ape sh*t, poo throwing behavior evolved from there. My hypothesis as a notable scientist type is that all monkey communities have a designated “witch doctor” of sorts (usually the craziest monkey; the one that smells the other monkey’s sh*t).
You know? Monkey tribal medicine. Those are the special monkeys that get stolen from their native lands and launched into space. They’re not the kind of monkeys whose brains were eaten in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. That’s how you contract AIDS. They are quirky, social, helper monkeys that do sign language. But they’re not human.
They still root around in monkey poop doing medieval diagnostics on poor sick chimps without so much as a rubber glove. Dude, you live in a rubber tree, you’re doing doctor stuff, you’re smart, so get a f*cking clue. Get the sh*t out of your hairy paw and reevaluate the situation; get protection. Have you ever heard of using tools? You’d shove a stick into a stinging ant hill to avoid being bitten, but you’d get monkey shit all over your fur glove for a grape seed? You don’t even have soap.
Dumb monkeys. That’s a nice story, but here’s how a monkey brain really works when he sees a scat item….pick up food, not smell like food, it poop, throw poop at zoo personnel, jump around and make lots of monkey noise, get drugged, monkey coma. Hey monkeys, listen up, I’m going to sign this really slowly: you look dumb throwing poop, the girl monkeys (apettes?) are talking about you and it’s not good. Just leave the turd tossing to me. Besides, I’m really good at it.
Representatives from several toilet paper manufacturing facilities reported late last week that due to a soaring demand in renewable resources, there have been shortages in trees. Tree species that are used to produce both hardwood floors and toilet paper have been over harvested completely wiping out supermarket toilet paper supplies.
Many consumers of TP are fuming due to the irritation and not-so-fresh-feeling that toilet paper relieves. Upon being asked about the situation, homemaker, Susan P. Heidges of Fairfield, CT replied, “It stinks. My derriere, I mean. I have tried timing BMs with daily showers, but I just don’t shower that much. I’m literally a mess right now.” Many others have similar sentiments and the public outcry is putting pressure on manufacturers to find substitutes.
Christina Walsh, a spokesperson for the lumber manufacturer, Timber Co., said Monday morning, “While we have always been responsible in replanting the trees we cut down, we never expected such a competitive market for our trees. Too many companies are gunning for the same resource and we have over sold to the highest bidder. We’ve learned a tough lesson and are now working quickly to find other sources to appease clients.” Hardwood flooring, framing companies, and Viking ship builders are all bidding high for Timber Co.’s trees.
While evergreens, savory hickory, and sweet mesquite woods have been used in place of the preferred, soft and comforting ash tree, no substitute has been found. Unable to fulfill demand, toilet paper manufacturers are urging wipers to be more conservative with their waste paper waste. Some helpful tips are to wipe only when necessary, stick gum to table undersides, blow noses into elbow crook, and avoid leaving bathrooms with toilet paper stuck to shoes. Above all, however, experts advise not using other products like printer paper or household pets as replacements as this may result in serious injury.
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