Sunday, June 19, 2016
Revised at 3:55 a.m.
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I have spent my entire adult life scheming and clawing my way all the way up to the exalted status of the lower working class. But now, I’m rich!
How rich, you ask? Well, today, I took inventory, counting up all my toilet paper. A family man can never have enough. Note that I did not count every roll in the house, e.g., two rolls are in immediate back-up in the thinking room, and a few are stashed around the Stix family redoubt for immediate access for impending sneezes.
In my home office, I counted 136 rolls of toilet paper. That’s Scott toilet paper, not rolls of Marcal or Charmin that are gone in a blink, mind you.
In various weapons caches in and around the living room, I tallied up 110 rolls.
Even The Boss came clean, and confessed to maintaining a stash of yet 20 more.
Two-hundred and sixty-six rolls of Scott toilet paper. If that ain’t wealth, I don’t know what is.
Someone said that it’s a waste of money, if the house burns down. I noted that if the house burned down, the fire would consume one of the greatest private libraries in the City of New York, which is worth a bit more than even our treasure of toilet paper, but that impressed no one. I live with people who think that burning books is a great way to free up space.
A third party argued, “You can wipe your butt with toilet paper, but you can’t wipe it with a book.”
In spite of that last remark being false—academics have been wiping their butts with books for years—I let it pass.
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