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Toilet Paper and Tariffs

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Toliet Tariffs Are UnfairToilet Paper Tariffs

After having ignored the latest Internet dust-up about the Ambien-slurping racist Roseanne, I stumbled upon the list of items to have tariffs applied to them since President Jerkbag decided to engage in a trade war with the rest of the world. And guess what? Not only will steel and aluminum in multiple forms be slapped with mindless duties, taxes and fees, not only will orange juice, ballpoint pens, soy sauce, ketchup and mustard be subject to consumer-crushing tariffs, but the most crucial paper product in the home will be subject to tariffs. Yes, toilet paper is a victim in this irrational war of  words.

I could easily devolve into thematically-related insults and name-calling in the direction of Trump and his administration (some very low-hanging fruit would be ‘butt-wipe POTUS’, ‘butt-kissing cronies’, and ‘human farts in suits’). But that wouldn’t bring the discussion anywhere, except deeper into the toilet.

But it must be said — tariffs on toilet paper is pretty low. It’s below the belt. It’s dirty pool. Now it’s personal.

You’re probably asking yourself — well, I am asking myself, actually, since I have been in a state of sleep deprivation for the better part of a year now and I have a very tenuous grip on reality as well as my bank account — how can toilet paper tariffs be personal? It’s not like they’re taxing meats of a smoked and carcinogenic nature, something dangerously close to my heart. Or, perish the thought, chocolate and/or cinnamon danish, the two food groups associated with Olympic strength and endurance. But it is personal.

Rare is the occurrence that I sit on the porcelain throne, toilet paper at the ready, without a filthy, juvenile, sophomoric, toilet inspired-level joke crossing my mind. And with that, the inevitable follow-on thought What would my recently departed uncle Phil, a genuine colorectal surgeon hero, have thought? If there was some kind of butt- or toilet-related humor, I made sure he caught wind of it. Figuratively, of course.

He, one of the very few fans of this comic with a full complement of 23 pairs of chromosomes, sadly left this earthly plane not long ago. Talk about a guy who knew his shit. He even brought to my attention, and to thousands of others, the existence of the Colossal Colon. If you’ve ever had the desire to crawl through a colon, he was the guy to talk to.

Which brings us to the end of today’s sermon. It is soon time for ye all to go to bed, and hold precious the rolls of low-priced toilet paper tissue you already own, and be prepared for the expensive onslaught of tariff-plagued TP the next time you’re on the commode. Or of Trump.

Lovingly misunderstood,
Jon “Not that Crapper” Dribbler

If Trump were a brand of toilet paper, he would be...

Meaning of Life

Abusive Thought

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To the readers of this rag, be warned — It’s Super Bowl weekend in America, and more crucially, a fractured circadian rhythm leading to intense sleep-deprivation and a reduced chocolate intake are the source for this rant.

Having survived what has been a winter that can best be described as bi-polar, in all its meanings, I have come to the conclusion that Mother Nature is an abusive parent. I think she is either a raging alcoholic who was jilted by a lover at a young age or she is going through some kind of menopause, given the extremes in heat and cold we have experienced recently.

So this begs the question, is Mother Nature an abusive parent because of us and our bad behavior over the centuries letting animals crap in streams and rampant pollution we have emitted through nuclear waste and McDonald’s Happy Meals that were made with industrial grease and oils?

Or are we rebelling against our mother, after she has acted like an obsessive tiger mom who has imposed strict guidelines, with occasional beatings and earthquakes and floods, as well as curfews meant to keep us on the straight and narrow so we could get into that Ivy League college that she could brag about to her friends over tea? Are we humans rebelling against mommy, sort of like running away to San Francisco, living in a filthy commune, getting tattoos and smoking opium?

Given how old nature is, probably a few billion years old at least, it’s hard to say, we can’t find her birth certificate anywhere in the filing cabinet, and given that she is well past her peak, maybe we should stick Mother Nature in the garage instead of a proper nursing home? You know, between the car and the water heater tank at the back wall, where the spider webs and snow tires are? It certainly would be cheaper than a nursing home, and I could invest the difference in ski vacations and dividend-paying stocks.

So, now that you have wandered away from the computer because you are disgusted by the supposition above, I ask this question: What does this theme of abusive parenting have to do with this episode of Stanko & Tibor, the 21st century’s answer to the question “why haven’t the secret police banished this cartooning buffoon to Devil’s Island?”

I couldn’t really answer that given I am wildly sleep-deprived as of late, and sadly, I can’t convince my wife to buy the industrial chocolate chip cookies I need like heroin.

So keep warm, wear a hat and mitts, drink plenty of fluids (distilled or not), and give mom a bear hug.

CIA Director J. Edgar Druker