An Entire Post Explicitly Devoted To Wiping My Ass

No, “wiping my ass” isn’t slang for buying drugs or sexing models. I can forgive you for thinking that, since I'm incredibly in tune with the kids of today. I'm hip with their Avril Lavignes and their Tracy Chapmans and their enormous, superfluously-pocketed pants.

No, what follows is a possibly far-too-accurate documentation of events that involve bum-wiping. Sensitive readers and those of you eating something are strongly advised to not read the following, which involves my ass in pretty much every paragraph.

On with the show, this is itttttt!

I was in a government building applying for a passport when the call to action came. Some calls to action you can clench and ignore. You're forcing your excretus back up your intestines by doing so, of course--and since that doesn’t sound remotely healthy, I don’t recommend it.

Having said that, there are times in anyone’s life –at a board meeting, giving birth to a child, negotiating terrorist surrender during a hijacked bus scare – that clenching is the only sensible option. Given most hospitals’ propensity for mix-ups, going number two during a difficult childbirth could result in you driving a shirt-and-pants-wearing dump to childcare while your offspring floats in a maternity ward toilet somewhere.

Other times, though, the choice is entirely out of your hands. The President of NASA could be offering you a billion dollars to navigate sex with the Olsen twins in a space station; it doesn't matter. Sometimes your bowels just tell you—they don’t ask--that they need to lose excess baggage or make an emergency landing. Over a toilet, in your pants in a crowded elevator--where you want to drop the payload is in your hands. The only variable not up for discussion is when, because that's now. Drop what you’re doing and find porcelain.

This is where I found myself while filling out passport applications. Not overly eager to messily shit myself in a government building (it might be illegal for all I know), I dropped what I was doing and immediately hunted a bathroom while awkwardly crab-walking.

Luckily for me, the seventh unmarked hallway I searched had a "MEN" sign on it. Barring it being the entrance to an exclusive males-only after-hours club—and were they in for an surprise if it was—I’d hit paydirt.

I’ll graciously spare you the uncomfortable details (you're welcome). Suffice it to say, though: mission accomplished. No complications in obtaining the primary objective; in fact, it easily ranked in the top twenty (those of you who know what I mean know what I mean here). The only kink occurred when I went to grab some toilet paper, and of course found none.

I’m told there are stages of overcoming alcohol addiction; denial, anger, eventually acceptance. There are also stages to realizing you don’t have toilet paper at a time when its presence would be most crucial—though in remembering the incident, I don’t recall “acceptance” anywhere in there. Shock, of course (“No toilet paper? But I need that! For reasons I’d rather not go into!”); tailed quickly by feelings of intense betrayal towards the custodian (“Who has time to check TP stock when I’m out behind a Kimco bin smoking this enormous ass-cocking joint?”). Then, of course, shame (“I have shit all over my ass, and I’m powerless to take action”); rounded out by blind desperate panic (“I must conduct reconnaissance”).

Hiking up my pants with deliberate care and waddling like a constipated penguin, I moved to the only other stall on the premises; pulled my pants down again; prepared myself for the ass-wiping of a lifetime; then reached over to the TP dispenser to find it, also, empty.

Entering the next stage of toilet paper withdrawal symptoms, I spent a good two minutes mentally cursing the janitor, who for the purposes of my esteem I imagined to be both retarded and miserable, burdened with twelve children and cursing his debts as he walks across the street, only to be pummeled mercilessly by the grill of my car and backed over repeatedly.

I once again hiked up my pants and penguin-waddled out of the stall, checking for paper towel dispensers next to the sinks and finding wall-mounted hand-drying units. A quick search uncovered only a wadded-up piece of paper towel under the sinks, which—considering the bathroom only supplied hand-drying machines—had to have been brought into the public bathroom by a third party, used for whatever purpose someone might bring their own hand towels into a bathroom for, then left indiscriminately in a sopping-wet mass.

I’ll be honest: it wasn’t an easy decision. Ultimately, though, I decided that applying anything to my own body that was currently wet and clinging to the floor of a public bathroom probably wasn’t getting me any cleaner. Cursing the janitor one more time, I penguin-walked awkwardly into the outside world, my butt-cheeks full of unwiped ass-mess and rubbing against each other with a greasy quickness I wanted over and done with as soon as possible.

I ambled into the food court and discovered just how far industry has come to ensuring regular people never come into contact with paper in any way. Remember when bathrooms actually had paper towel dispensers? When food courts had napkin dispensers? I'm as much a Greenpeace activist as the next guy, but let's be frank—when you’re walking around with an assful of unwiped unpleasantness, fuck fucking trees in their stupid treeholes. I would have gladly burned a rain forest filled with hippies for a half-roll of generic brand one-ply.

I ambled up to a Chinese restaurant and asked if I might have some napkins, praying the cashier wouldn’t ask me why. The cashier winced visibly, as if I’d grabbed her palm and cut it. She looked under the register with pained deliberation for a good minute before producing a single napkin, with the weight and consistency of a grocery bill.

“Could I have more?” I asked, aware that you can buy a box of napkins from a wholesaler for about forty cents, making my request for three more napkins a net loss to her restaurant of about two-ninths of a penny. Though I realized how irrational it was, the actions of this one woman were making me forever hate the Chinese as a race.

She considered my request for a longish while while I busied myself letting shit harden on my ass. Finally, with a magnanimous flourish, she produced a second check-sized napkin, giving me a look that hoped to impress upon me the magnitude of my request.

“Could I have more?” I asked.

“No more,” She replied. “Not free.” I had reached the limit of her generosity, it seemed. Collecting my meager bounty, I ambled penguin-like back to the bathrooms with my two napkins, hoping to get the job done.

Of course not. Even in optimal conditions, I’ve simply got more ass than two air-thin pieces of napkin can accommodate. Several minutes of walking and jostling had aggravated the matter to a crisis of half-roll proportions.

“I could really use more napkins,” I found myself saying to the woman a minute later.

“No more napkins!” she said, putting her foot down. “What you need them for?”

“I, uh, made a mess in the bathroom,” I said. I wasn't lying in a technical sense; though I left out the fact that I’d twice brought the mess out to the food court since making it.

“You call janitor! That not our job!” she advised.

“I hate you,” I said, meaning it.

Further exploration of the food court turned up several wadded-up napkins near plates of half-finished meals (yoink); a carelessly unguarded stack of four napkins near the register of a deli about to close (also yoink); and a Toronto Star newspaper (worst-case-scenario yoink, and it's not like it didn't deserve what it potentially had coming to it).

Five minutes later, the job was done; I’d rubbed myself raw to compensate for my momentary unpleasantness, leaving me with the feeling like I’d been fucked in the ass by pro wrestlers. But at least I was once again clean. I walked triumphantly back to the passport office and filled out several forms, confident that at the very least, this would be the worst thing to happen to me all day.

This theory was shot to shrapnel not a half hour later, when I mistook a bowl of potpourri for upscale Chex Mix and ate what I thought was an interesting-looking corn chip; but since I’ve already exceeded my humiliation quotient for the day, I’ll leave that for another time.

Shameless Plug

Do yourself a favor and go read Peter Lynn's blog Ruddy Inc., just about the only blog I take the time to check regularly. The deal is: Pete signed himself up to a mailing list under the improbable name 'Ruddy Ruddy', then sat back and watched it snowball. Reading about an imaginary collection agency sending imaginary threats to a completely imaginary person has to be read to be enjoyed. If you're looking to kill some time, I heartily recommend Pete's prose; he's got a fantastic way with words that always gets me laughing.

Need a Light? Urine Luck!

My boss and I went out DVD shopping on our lunch break yesterday (as it turns out, the man’s a veritable treasure map of good used media stores in the Toronto area). On our walk back to the office, we were both stopped by an old homeless man, who asked if either of us had a light. Since I was actually smoking a cigarette at the time, I admit it must have looked highly suspicious when I told the man that I did not.

In reality, I’m simply so used to getting pestered for anything I might have on me (spare change, a beer, a slice of pizza if I’m holding a Pizza Hut box) that I’ve usually already got a pre-emptive “No, sorry” ready before a homeless guy can even finish asking me for free things. That was the case here. I'd already primed myself for a "no" before I even registered that he didn't want change.

(Those of you who might think this a bit monstrous of me should keep in mind that Toronto currently houses the largest homeless population in the civilized world. This means that if you were to hold up a quarter and walk six blocks in any direction, you would be asked for it some 228 times. I guarantee you by the 147th your sympathy runs a bit thin.)

I’d misunderstood his request, though to be honest I wouldn’t have given him my lighter even if I had understood the question, since he smelled overpoweringly of urine. Call me prejudiced, but my take is that anyone unmindful of peeing in their own pants is probably taking liberties with other areas of personal hygiene as well. I won’t bother conjecturing which liberties specifically; suffice it to say, though, that if you reek of your own pee you don’t get to touch my things.

My boss gave me a sideways glance as we walked, and I felt the need to explain myself. “He stank like pee,” I said, assuming this in and of itself would account for my reluctance to share my lighter. Apparently not, as we continued to walk in silence and he continued to give me a sideways glance.

“I didn’t want him touching my lighter,” I elaborated. “What, you would have given it to him?”

“Yeah,” he said—a bold stance to take on a divisive issue, and certainly a meaningless one, since he doesn’t even smoke. It’s pretty easy to claim you’d let homeless guys touch imaginary items in your possession. If we were going to play that game, I could have easily countered that the homeless guy had only to ask for any magical golden pigs I had on me, and they would be his. I took the moral high ground, though, mainly because he has the power to fire me, and instead changed the subject.

I open this up to you, the casual blog reader; feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments section below. Was I morally wrong to withhold my lighter from the urine-scented man? I put forward that I was not, and that it’s a perfectly reasonable stance to ask that anyone putting their hands all over my stuff not reek powerfully of their own dried filth. If they are unable to meet this bare minimum requirement, then as tragic as it is, I’m afraid their cigarettes must go unlit. I welcome your thoughts on the righteousness and/or callous barbarity of this policy.

Back of the Bible: The Book of Malachi

Everybody loves the Bible. It's shit-full of good advice you can apply to your everyday life, from "Turn the other cheek" to "God hates fags."

What many people don't know, however, is that it isn't just the thing referenced in velvet Jesus paintings—it's also this enormous goddamn thousand-years-old book.

Some of it is still pretty applicable today. If you're looking for sage advice as to the moral and spiritual direction of your life, Jesus apparently knows the score. I've never spoken to the man personally—but he's gotten enough thumbs-up reviews from friends that I'm willing to agree that, fictional or not, brother brings game. A guy could probably pay attention to Jesus and do well for himself. Worst case scenario, you don't get to sleep with your neighbor's wife and everyone gets to slap the shit out of your cheek.

Keep in mind, though, that the Bible's about as thick as a phone book. For every chapter about Jesus sprinting across a lake to tell you how much he loves kittens, there's another about God making a smoking peasant fireball because they accidentally sacrificed a goat to Him with the wrong knife.

Once you wade past the shallow end of the New Testament into the back half of the Old Testament, get ready: it turns out God's a fucking lunatic, and He loves the taste of your blood. Old Testament God ain't letting Himself get nailed to any pussy crosses for your sinning ass; OT God wouldn't spit on you if your genitals were on fire. If He covers your eyes with boils to win bets with Satan, consider yourself lucky He didn't turn your city into a mushroom cloud for not praying to Him enough. Even a cursory reading of the Old Testament leaves only one conclusion: God is a hardass, and He will kill you without blinking if you step out of line.

It can't be too many more years before Christians get themselves a decent copy editor and start publishing the Bible with a quick paragraph about the Garden of Eden and Noah before seguing right to Jesus, thus bypassing a thousand pages of dense insanity completely. Until then, let's have some fun and dreg through the Bible's backlog. I'm willing to bet there's some chapters in there that'd surprise both of us.

The Book of Malachi

Synopsis

You've got to hand it to Malachi—the guy's got balls. Not only does he claim to channel the very word of the Lord; by the end of the first paragraph he's speaking for all of us too. The Book of Malachi offers us a back-and-forth dialogue between God and us, with Malachi subbing in the questions he assumes we'd ask. It reads a lot like if you were getting chewed out by the school principal, except every time it was your turn to talk, the retarded kid who got graded by putting Cokes in the Coke machine answered for you.

Everything Malachi puts in our mouths is total character assassination. God enters the chat with "I have loved you," which seems nice of Him and a strong conversational opener. According to Malachi, you respond by getting all up in God's face, asking: "How have you loved us?"

You honestly want to slap Malachi for misrepresenting you so horribly. If I'd been given an audience with God, I'd like to think I'd make some small talk first before I lubed up any fastballs. "You look absolutely exhausted," I might say, or "That glowing robe has a really slimming effect on you." I doubt my first words to the Lord would be "I know you used to do shit for me, but what have you done for me late-lee?", is my point. It's God, fuckstick. He just told you He loves you a whole bunch. At least wait till the poor bastard sits down before you start cross-examining Him like Matlock.

God bristles a little, understandably, then answers by proving His love for us. Given that this is the Old Testament, though, God proves said love for us in the most convoluted and insane way possible. God's proof of loving us, it seems, is because He loves Jacob but hates Esau. It's not entirely clear how that's relevant, but it's God, so probably you let it slide.

God goes on to explain that His profound hatred for Esau led Him to make his lands "a desolation, and his heritage a desert of jackals." Nice choice of words for God, really. As is typical of the Old Testament, God gets a little carried away explaining precisely how He intends to fuck up this milksop Esau for crossing him, and we get a lengthy section of the Lord laying out the many awesome ways in which He'll make sure Esau regrets the day he ever heard the name God.

At this point, you might be thinking this is less about God loving you, per se, and more about God really hating this Esau guy. Keep in mind Esau might be a fresh wound for him. You let it slide and nod.

God rounds out His speech against all things Esau by explaining that a son must honor his father; and since He's the father of everything, He should thus get honor and respect squared. He's still skirting the whole "How have you loved us?" issue, though my guess is He's still just steamed that you jumped on Him about loving you the second He got through the door (thanks, Malachi). This is His way of saying, "You know what, maybe fuck me loving you. Why don't you love me a little, huh, asshole?" Note for next time: ask about God's day first, then openly challenge His love for you.

Passages You Might Want To Skip Over

God spends the majority of the Book of Malachi getting a big head of steam on for all the people who don't have the time to worship the absolute hell out of Him. With no offense to the guy, He seems to hammer on this one nail an awful lot, and it's not a terribly attractive character trait. You sort of want to take the poor schlub aside and offer him some pointers: "Guy, chicks dig confidence."

After five pages of God getting little bits of spittle on his lip telling you the incredible number of ways He intends to destroy you for not worshipping Him, you can't help but conclude He could've trimmed the Bible in half if He'd just hired a better PR guy. Nike didn't get their market share by saying they'd give ass boils to anyone who didn't buy their shoes: they hired Michael Jordan and had him make slam dunks and yell "Nike cures cancer". God's a bit of a tool when it comes to self-promotion, it turns out. If it hadn't been for getting Jesus to product place for Him, I doubt He'd have lasted past 100 AD.

Conclusion

There's probably a good reason the Book of Malachi got shuffled to the absolute back of the Bible—they've got him after the index in some versions, right before the author blurb. If you're willing to take Malachi at face value, God came down from the heavens to dictate wisdom that humanity could study for centuries, but somehow got hilariously sidetracked and spent His alloted five minutes remembering how much He hated some guy named Esau before telling us all to worship Him or He'd beat on us like a tambourine.

Saner heads might suggest it wasn't God with the raging hate-erection for Esau, but rather Malachi himself, who probably got one too many bags of leaves upended in his yard, then decided getting what a colossal penis his neighbor was etched into the Bible was more important than God's message to His people.

Moral Lessons You Can Take With You

"You have wearied the Lord with your words," says God at one point. You can almost imagine Him clutching the bridge of His nose here. If there's one thing you can take away from the Book of Malachi, it's this: stop bugging God. He's not your fucking hotline. If you're going to act like a dick all day, don't waste the brother's time. God's got better things to do than listen to your bullshit.

Also, if you've got a sick goat and a healthy goat, sacrifice the healthy one, or God is going to absolutely beat your ass sore. Getting divorced? Watch out. He's not huge on that either.

Best God Quote

"I will rebuke your offerings, then spread dung on your faces." (Malachi 2:3)

Rick James (1948-2004)

Super-Freak Sets Sights on Super-Reeking For 2005

Funk legend Rick James—best known for the 1981 hit “Super Freak” before his life tailspun into a living nightmare of wild sex parties, expensive drugs and shooting whoever he felt like—died Friday of Rick James-related illnesses. He was 56; in funk years, James was 4T-8 4 U.

James' publicist told press earlier today that James died of natural causes. She also noted that anyone who believed this should immediately send their credit card information directly to James' estate, to help fund a fart-powered supercar capable of boomeranging around Heaven at the speed of light, "teleporting his ghost into the cockpit and bringing it safely home."

“Today the world mourns a legend of the funkiest kind,” said Prince earlier today, in an emotional statement issued from the sun roof of his hot pink penis-shaped limousine. “Rick James was the undisputed grandmaster of all that is, and will ever be, divine-freak-supafly-funky.” Prince then did something crazy, in all likelihood, and to the embarrassed horror of all present, before ducking back into his limo.

Born James A. Johnson Jr. in Buffalo, N.Y., motown singer Rick James shot up the charts in the early 70's. 1980 proved a watershed year for James, with singles making the Billboard charts from a record-setting 66 albums released by him that year. Some of the most popular of the 178 singles were “Love Gun, "Girl, Get Into My Car (For Hard Fucking)", "Bring The Freak Out On My Big Stuff", "Gonna Buy Cocaine From U", "Gotta Get Me Some (Big Fat Hookers)", "Tonight's The Night (For Hard Fucking)", "Florist Clitoris" and the Grammy award-winning "Makin' Lady Gravy With My Baby" (featured on the [i]The Big Chill [/i]soundtrack). MC Hammer would later steal the song's famous baseline for his hit "Please Hammer, Don't Make Us Hurt You".

The 80's would bring legal problems and health troubles for James, the most famous of these The People v. Rick James For Exposing Himself To Seniors and heart palpitations brought on from excessive genital manipulation at Sunny Acres Retirement Home, respectively.

James was convicted in 1993 of assaulting two women; first in 1991 when he burned a girl with a hot pipe for reasons known only to James (imaginary bats?); and a second time for burning a girl with a hot pipe only two weeks later while out on bail from the first offense, which he somehow posted despite being extremely wealthy.

A Los Angeles judge later called James' actions "reprehensible," though did note how impressive it was that he managed to score a date so quickly after a heavily-publicized female pipe-burning conviction. "Either he's incredibly fucking charming," he said, "or bitch needs to read a paper."

James was not married. He is survived by legions of illigitimate children, all of whom intend to make a claim to James' substantial fortune. This will be televised later this year on FOX as part of their new season's reality programming, and is tentatively titled Proof You're Too Stupid To Read.