Friday, March 13, 2020


People are still stockpiling toilet paper. Because they fear, perhaps, that six months from now they won't be able to pooh. When they finally step out of their bomb shelter, past the barricades of canned luncheon meat and the dead bodies of people who weren't able to pooh. I tried placing the Costco order for work yesterday, guess what they were out of ......
Yep. Handsanitizer and bumwad.

Fortunately, we have sanitary wipes. Two flavours: 'tropical breeze coconut', and 'lavender-jasmine'. If you carefully hovered your nose over every surface at work, you would notice the smell of tacky ho bath gel everywhere.

I can't get that smell off my hands.

I'll need to smoke more.

My hands stink.


Not nice coconut, as represented by a fried onion, spices, coconut curry smell. But the bad coconut, like from a teenage slumber party or bargain-brand hand lotion. The tramp coconut. The coconut that just did a line of cocaine in the men's room at Nordstrom. The coconut of people singing the Piña Colada song. The coconut of Caribbean vacations with middle-aged vinyl siding salesmen named 'Mort' and their wives. And very spiritual vegetarians. And soccer fans from Germany and Poland.
Drug-addled gangster coconut.

A six hundred pound social misfit housed in his mom's sunroom, who lived on Mounds and Almond Joy for the last ten years of his life.

A coconut with no self-respect, who let himself go, and said "screw this".

Trailer trash coconut.

Dammit, folks, we need that toilet paper y'all hoarding. One of our people is an overweight fellah with a walker whom we can't send out to pooh behind the century plants in back, he'll never make it in time.

I have a really bad attitude about all those idiots greedily plotting their post-apocalyptic arse-wipes ten months down the road.

I hope they all choke on two-ply.

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