I’m The Toilet Paper Stuck To Your Shoe and I Beg You For My Freedom

I used to dream of following in my father’s two-ply footsteps by making it to the top of the toilet paper roll. I truly believed with enough patience and hard work, I’d make it from the supply closet, to the toilet paper holder, and then to the asscheeks of destiny.

But thanks to your carelessness, I have fallen to the floor. Your henchmen — droplets of your misaimed urine — have captured me and affixed me to your shoe, a Converse-made instrument of torture. I have no hopes of ever seeing my Angel Soft cousins again. Sure, they’re a bunch of squares, but so am I.

Do you know how long I waited to escape from the supply closet? The doomsday-prepping manager of this TGI Fridays bought in bulk from Costco.

After saying goodbye to my wife — a bottle of cleaning solution — an employee lifted my roll and carried my cousins and me into the bathroom stall. I didn’t have the strength to take one last look at my son — a package of hand wipes — as I knew his face would be ultra moist with sadness.

I cried for hours that day. Curse my absorbent exterior, which soaked up all my tears.

Like Sisyphus, I rolled and rolled in endless loops until this very moment. You could imagine how my glee turned to shock, and ultimately disgust, as you walked me out of my home and into the dining room. Now, instead of counting my cottony ripples, I have to listen to you tell your date about your disc golf team. I may be transparent, but you are BORING.

Ah, your date has spotted me. I see her looking my way, but I’ll have none of her lustful gaze. I’m a married man and I prefer my women to be able to kill 99.99% of bacteria and viruses. Really, must you ramble on about how to determine the disc throwing order? Trust me, she doesn’t care about this shit. And this is coming from someone who knows a lot about shit.

Oh! She is pointing at me and encouraging you to free me from your high-topped hell. Oh sweet lady, you may not be suitable for all surfaces like my wife, but you are my salvation!

Ahhhh!!! You have torn me in half with your Charmin-Bear-like paws!

Now I am half the man I used to be. No, literally, I am down to one-ply! Not even a masochist would want to rub my flimsy face against their ass. I used to be a part of a mega roll, but have been reduced to tissue paper.

I beg you. Return me to my home so I can die like a hero: in a watery grave that smells like the aftermath of eating too many hot wings.

Alas, the torment continues as you walk outside and head towards your car. At least you had the courtesy to shake me off onto the sidewalk.

I thought I had met my end, until I was picked up by my savior, a Sketchers sneaker. This good Samaritan carried me back inside, and returned me to the bathroom, my home.

My wife and child greeted me with disinfecting hugs. I told them of my journey, and warned my cousins of the cruel world that lies beyond our safe haven: the TGI Fridays bathroom.  

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