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My Name is Drunkle and I’m a Recovering “Dysfunctional Wiper”

January 14, 2011

Parents Should Teach Their Children How to Wipe

It’s not that I blame my parents per se, but there are some skills in life that should really be explicitly taught to your children before they turn 30. One of those skills is how to effectively use toilet paper after you’ve done your business (you know, going # 2.)

On the other hand, the correct social conventions for boys going # 1 in public restrooms were made readily apparent one fateful day by the shame and ridicule of my fellow kindergartners. Hence I quickly learned that although effective, pulling your pants and Batman underoos clear down to your ankles in preparation to use the urinal was really not the preferred method anymore. (Although I do sometimes imagine bringing this back as a kind of retro reboot. Imagine the hilarity or criminal charges that would ensue.)

Now # 2 is a different beast altogether. The mere activity lends itself to a certain amount of privacy that prevented me from receiving these painful, yet ultimately enlightening lessons. Stalls usually have doors. Therefore I was left to my own devices and ingenuity when the time came to do my business. I guess my parents just assumed I would figure it out.

This was a poor parental assumption. However, in my mother’s defense when questioned directly about the matter, she just figured that “as long as there were no skid marks” on my tiny, superhero-emblazoned underwear, “you must have been doing something right.”

Oh how little she knew. In any event, I can now happily say that I have since mastered the art of wiping my own behind. Now I’m a modern day Picasso that wipes and flushes with the kind of confidence seldom seen in this “anything goes” world of ours.

Parents out there reading this take note, as this is important. There may be “no wrong way to eat a Reese’s,” but there are literally hundreds of wrong ways to wipe your ass. I know. I have tried them all. Do your kids a favor. Teach them the right way.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go figure out how to use these damn 3 seashells

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2 Comments
  1. The "Poop" Sheriff permalink

    I was thinking about taking a saccharine but slightly salty sabbatical in Sacramento when I stumbled upon scholastic scribblings about shit. I have scrubbed, scuffed, even scientifically scythed said scoundrel shit and felt solely like a semi-invalid sell-out. I have held serene seances off the seashores of Seattle, seethed in sedition and sedate seduction of scattered toilet paper sediment. I have scholasticized, scrutinized and scrivened my shredded bunghole, but to small avail. Suffice it to say, this soliloquy on scraping speaks Shakespearean about stevedoreing one’s own suffocating rectum. And for that, I summon the Spartan Sword of Shadow and the Scandinavian Spoon of Sentimentality in serviceable but shadowy shenanigans at offering my slanderous sheep-loving thanks. The Poop Sheriff.

  2. The words in Italics above have been edited by Drunkle in the sole hope that my blog will not be banned unnecessarily by Puritanical firewalls. My sincere apologies for adulterating your comments.

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