Shit happens

We all do it; nobody likes to talk about it. It's one of the most incredibly universal things that could bring us all together, but somehow is relegated to the dark recesses of inapropos conversational topics and embarassing bodily functions. Sex, politics, and poop: the three things that are never discussed in polite complany. A simple, biological act that is fraught with awkwardness and discomfort (I mean in the emotional and not the physical sense!) despite the fact that everybody does it.

I know this to be a grand axiom: poop is the great equalizer. Doesn't matter if you're a great political or spiritual leader or a simple plebian; if you're drop-dead-gorgeous and look like Levi Poulter, George Eads, Daniel Craig, or any other Hottie McHothott; or if you look like Susan Boyle on Britain's Got Talent.

When the normal biological function becomes something more urgent, we have various euphamisms to describe it: prarie dogging; turtling; turtle-necking. When the act becomes imminent, my freinds and I even have devised a code word--a phrase, really--to describe such situations: "key theory."

Why "key theory" you ask? Well, I shall enlighten you.

You know you've been there. You're out and about and you feel the urge. Now, instead of finding a public bathroom (let's face it, despite the universality of defecation, given the option most of us would rather do it in the comfort of our own loo), we clench and think, "Oh, I'm on my way home anyway." But as we get closer to home, the urge becomes more overwhelming. In fact, the First Law of Defecation states that the intensity of the tenesmatic urge is directly proportional to the proximity of the domicile. This sensation strikes its most frightening peak when you touch the housekey to the doorknob. Hence, the Key Theory. Your hand shakes with urgency as cold sweat trickles down your brow. You fumble and jab the key towards the keyhole; you do that dance as you say a silent prayer to whatever diety. Possessions and belongings are thrown hither and thither as you race to the closest bathroom, unbuckling, unzipping, and dropping trou as you rush toward the seat.

Let's be honest: at times like this when we're at our most vulnerable, most of us would sooner leave a baby in a car without the A/C on a 100-degree day when we're rushing to get inside.

I bring this up because I am down to my last roll of toilet paper. And rather than face the possibility of running out, I faced my fear and discomfort and went to the store. As I stood in the "paper products" aisle, I realized Images of bears frolicking in the woods with pieces of toilet tissue stuck to their backside are upsetting to me. I mean, really? We found a replacement for the Maytag repairman. Why can't we find a reasonable replacement for that lovable quasi-crumudeon Mr. Whipple? I like to think of the phrase, "Does a bear shit in the woods?" as a theoretical construct; one that doesn't need any accompanying or clarifying imagry.

I guess the marketing folk at Charmin disagree.