Warning: The following column contains potty humor

I need to state up front that some of you may find the subject matter of today's column offensive or in bad taste. By continuing to read, you agree not to hold it against the author, though you may otherwise continue to “hold it” to the extent necessary to finish the column.

Or not. That is your call...

Today I am coming to you from the commode. Figuratively speaking, of course.

You see, I have taken an interest in t-p (toilet paper, for those less technically inclined).

Why?

Good question. In fact, I am still asking it of myself as I write this column.

I guess I can trace my interest to a recent conversation I had with a group of friends. The upshot of this discussion was that toilet-paper users (in other words, most of civilized society) fall into one of three distinct (as opposed to “da stink”) categories. To wit: Rollers, Folders and Scrunchers.

Rollers -- These aren’t religious fanatics, but rather people who wrap t-p around their hand or fingers, forming a sort of mini-roll, before application.

Folders -- These people fold their t-p back and forth, making a stack of squares, prior to usage.

Scrunchers -- These are people who pull a length of t-p from the roll, then proceed to scrunch it up into a bunch before putting it to work down below.

It’s rather curious to think that all of society can apparently be grouped into one of these three categories. It also leaves me with a number of important questions.

For instance, how do people decide which they are going to be? Are they influenced by their parents during potty training?

“No, no, no, Son. In this house we scrunch. We don’t fold, and we definitely don’t roll.”

Do they try out each method to see which works best?

“But Dad, I tried scrunching, and sometimes it makes thin spots that, well, you know….

Can’t I just go back to folding?”

Do people ever change teams, so to speak?

“Oh, hey, Bob, I see you’re a folder. You know, I used to be a folder myself, but recently I converted to scrunching. It’s a heckuva lot faster…. What’s that? Oh, sorry, I’ll shut the door now.”

I also wonder whether the method one selects after making number two says something profound about you.

For instance, I might infer that scrunchers are free-spirited, carefree people who don’t sweat the small stuff. I imagine most of the people who attended Woodstock were scrunchers (assuming, that is, they could even find t-p).

“Hey, dude, there’s no toilet paper left in the port-o-john.”

“I know, man. You have to use these dead leaves.”

“But dude -- you can’t scrunch dead leaves!”

On the other hand, folders would appear to be a highly analytical, possibly even neurotic, group of potty soldiers. In fact, I would bet most folders leave the bathroom knowing exactly how many squares they used.

“Hey, Tom, I’ve never seen you leave the men’s room so happy?”

“Oh, that’s because I just set a personal best -- five squares!”

And then there are the rollers, wrapping t-p round and round their fingers. These are likely to be middle-of-the-road personalities, neither uptight like folders nor free-spirited like scrunchers. But I do wonder one thing: How do they know when to stop rolling? Is it by the number of revolutions, the amount of elapsed time, or perhaps divine intervention?

“Honey, I just replaced the toilet paper roll, and now it’s almost empty…”

“Oh, right, I’m sorry. I usually roll for five seconds, but somehow I lost track of time.”

Based upon these definitions, it occurred to me that I might be able to categorize a number of celebs and public figures.

Jennifer Lopez -- Scruncher.

Ben Affleck -- Folder.

George W. Bush -- Roller.

Robin Williams -- Major Scruncher.

Martha Stewart -- Queen of the Folders. In fact, I imagine she folds her t-p into pretty origami shapes prior to wiping.

Michael Jackson -- Wacko Jacko appears to be the one person who doesn’t seem to fit into one of the three categories. I would bet he’s been holding it in since leaving the Jackson Five. Actually, that might explain a lot.

As for me? Well, let's just say my personal best is seven.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.

The title for this column is on a missing sticky note

When it comes to keeping my home office neat and organized, I am an abject failure. In fact, if organization is a sign of higher intelligence, you might take one look at my office and conclude it was the domain of a hardworking amoeba.

Most of the time, I work under varying levels of disaster. Sort of like the Homeland Security Advisory System, which provides a color-coded warning of terrorist activity to the American public (otherwise known as people who can do little, if anything, about it).

Just the other day, Washington raised the warning from yellow ("elevated risk") to orange ("high risk").

At the same time, my wife raised the in-house warning on my office from mauve ("sticky notes and popcans on the loose") to chartreuse ("dangerous piles of paper about to tip over").

It’s not that I am always a complete slob. My shirt is usually tucked in, and I generally shave every other day whether I need to or not. I also clean the house, including the toilets, on a fairly regular basis. And with two sons who apparently have better things to do than aim, cleaning the toilets is never quick and easy.

Me: "How the heck did you get so much pee on the shower curtains?"

Oldest son: "That’s not my pee, it’s my brother’s."

Me: "Oh really? How can you be so sure?"

Oldest son: "Because he did it when I shoved him."

Yet, when it comes to my office, well, things can get much uglier.

Let’s start with sticky notes, those little yellow pieces of paper with an adhesive back that come in multiple shapes and sizes. My desk is covered with them. I will admit it here and now: I am a sticky-note-aholic. When they come out with a patch that helps wearers break the sticky-note habit, I’m going to have to try it.

The mass of sticky notes that are strung across my upright desk like a strand of Christmas lights contain names, phone numbers, germs of ideas, words of wisdom, reminders and to-do lists. In fact, the point of some of these sticky notes is to remind me of information contained on -- yes -- other sticky notes.

Things have gotten so bad, my wife gave me a fancy notebook with a thick, textured cover on my last birthday. "Keep it on your desk and jot down all your little notes in it," she suggested with all of the subtlety of a Mafia don. "Oh, and happy birthday."

Her plan has met with mixed success. If you open the notebook, the pages are filled all right -- with many of my older, faded-yellow sticky notes. Those containing the newest information are back on my desk. I expect to find a dead fish on my chair any day now.

I also have a serious problem with popcans. They decorate my table and shelves, and not in a good way. It seems I can leave my office for a few minutes and, when I return, they have secretly multiplied. Two cans will now be four, and four cans will now be six. I have also made an interesting scientific discovery: Popcans are hermaphroditic -- a single can is capable of reproduction without the need of a sex partner.

Then there are my piles. Idea piles, bill piles, junkmail piles, magazine piles. My in-laws recently bought me a paper shredder as a gift (is there a trend here?). Quite thoughtful of them, really. The top of it is perfect for holding yet another pile of paper.

All of which frustrates my neat-nick wife to no end.

"How do you find anything in here?" she asked me the other day.

"I have my ways," I replied, trying to think of one.

"Do you even know what’s in some of these piles?"

"Uh, yeah, of course I do."

"Oh, really?"

She proceeded to sift through the nearest pile, pulling out scraps of paper, a couple Christmas cards, fliers from window cleaners and house painters, a magazine subscription form she asked me to send in weeks ago ("Oops!"), some of the kids’ schoolwork and -- lo and behold -- at the very bottom of the pile -- a brand new package of sticky notes.

"Hey, I’ve been looking for those," I said, and snatched them out of her hands.

Now I’m really going to get organized.

Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.