It’s the most wonderful time of the year…

When people everywhere “leave the poor choices of their past behind and look forward to the future.” Only, unlike Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, I’m not talking about Fashion Week. I’m talking about New Year’s resolutions. That said, statistically speaking, I probably won’t keep the ones I’ve made, so you really shouldn’t listen to me—especially since there’s actually a betting pool about how quickly I’ll fold on some of them; which, quite frankly, doesn’t even make sense. It’s not like anyone would know anyway; because, honestly, unless I trip and smack my face on a treadmill, no one wants to hear about my workouts. But I digress.

The point is that, thanks to your comments, mkromd has purchased a bag of ducks for Heifer (and, no autocorrect, I really did mean to type bag of ducks, but well played on your part). Furthermore, seeing as how I need all of the help I can get, I also bought Kanye West and Kim Kardashian prayer candles, which (God help me) I love almost as much as those two love themselves. Almost.

Also available, “HOLY CANDLES, Batman” and Lionel Ritchie in case it’s Him you’re looking for. I should warn you though, I don’t think modern idolatry works. No matter how many Kurt Cobain and John Lennon candles I light, Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus have yet to be raptured. On the up note, at least it’s not the end of the world (but I bet there's a Michael Stipe candle just in case).

In any event, happy 2015, and thanks again for helping Heifer. Talk to you later.

Let it roll, baby roll

Can we please have a moment of silence for my dignity? It died this week at work… on a toilet seat… much like Elvis did. Only there were no drugs involved. In fact, there was no toilet paper involved either, and that’s exactly where this week’s story begins. 

You see, when I’m at home, I accept that there’s never toilet paper when I need it. Though I buy it once a week and restock each bathroom in our house every weekend, for some reason there is never a square to spare when I'm in the loo. The roll is either as barren as Carthage or has a single, tattered remnant of hope still glued to the cardboard. 

But that’s not the point. The point is that you don’t expect that to happen at work. You don’t grab a roll on your way to the bathroom, “just in case.” Nor do you do a little recon before you “drop trou.” You assume that everyone has done their part. In other words, both you and the toilet paper roll are completely covered. Worse than that, at home, at least you have options: Kleenex… paper towels… packing tissue. I’m not proud, but I am honest, and there are days that the cocktail napkins in the kitchen drawer should be grateful they dodged a bullet.  At work, your only option is to twerk like Miley Cyrus to elevator music and hope you can actually drip dry with some modicum of success… which is precisely what I did.

However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. 

At the risk of blaming the victim, I should say that there was, indeed, some toilet paper on the roll when I walked into the stall. Not enough to line the seat, per se, about twenty to thirty squares, but definitely enough to take care of business. So there I was… jeans around my Dr. Martens… peeing… when I reached for the toilet paper… and accidentally pulled the entire roll with its holder off the wall. Yes. Really. The toilet tissue literally flew across my lap, landed on the floor, and proceeded to unravel as it rolled all the way to the restroom sink… while I helplessly watched in abject disbelief and horror.  

It’s times like these I wish I had more middle fingers so the universe knew exactly how deeply I wanted it to fuck off. Anyway, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m not sure what happened next. I like to think that by repressing it, I actually found some dignity. Note: If no one claims it within twenty-four hours, I’m keeping it.

Talk to you later.