When the high priest Moses ascended the slope of Mount Siani he was in search of an answer. 40 days and 40 nights later he found his way back with the Ten Commandments. While I am thankful for the crisp clarity of the milenia old damning guidelines, I place confidence in the fact that the centuries have erased the fingered disclaimer scrawled in short hand upon the tablets. The said disclaimer allows us to cheat on a commandment or two when we are in a life threatening situation, of course.
I found myself on the same life threatening threshold that the Lawgiver found himself on while hillside: toilet paperless. The past 13 days I have been without toosh tissue. Every time I drop off a deposit, I am reminded that I hate buying potty paper and have forgotten to once again pick up an illusive roll.
The only solution to this moral dilemma: take a shower. I have never had 13 consecutive days filled with so much soapy nudity. Two or three times I day, I find myself pleasantly surprised by yet another burst of hot water cascading down over my body. This fine solution became a highlight in my toilet paper conservation program until house guests began asking to use my restroom. To their surprise, I invited them to stroll across the street to the local convenience store where they could poop freely and use the sandpaper-esque toilet paper.
Finally, on the 13th day of my Mount Siani, I found myself in a public restroom delivering my digested product to the porcelain god. There was an extra roll of toilet tissue perched along side the throne. It seemed to call to me in ways no other inanimate object ever has. "Take me. Wipe thy tender bum and be free of thy burden," it chanted. In a moment surely to cause the Parter of the Red Sea grief, I stole that roll of wonderful wiping weave.
A commandment may have been broken, but I feel that the long lost disclaimer applies to such languished lavatory laments. Forgive me, for I have sinned.