Sheryl Crow must think her shit don’t stink. Sure, her announcement that she doesn’t thoroughly wipe her ass seems like something to admire on the surface. But when you consider that a tree still had to die for her single square of toilet paper, you suddenly realize that one square is one square too many.
That’s why long before Crow began daintily swabbing her sphincter with a postage stamp, Refine Design, Inc. had already declared itself a Tish-Free Zone. I’m proud to say that the entire company has completely refrained from wiping for almost six weeks now, preferring to allow our fudge to crust over and naturally crumble away with minimal harm to the environment. Suffice it to say that the policy has been incredibly popular and a great boost to company morale, with only a few soggy diapers in the bunch. That is, until Little Miss Wipes-Alot opened her big yapper. Now I have a potential mutiny on my hands.
“Everything from the waste down is on fire,” Steve from Accounting whined as he crawled on all fours into my cubicle this morning. “I can’t sit in a chair. I can’t walk. I feel like I’ve been sodomized by the entire population of Tijuana. Sheryl Crow uses one square, so why can’t I? One little square, that’s all I’m asking for. One little square!”
“Sure no problem!” I chirped. “Who needs forests, anyway? They’re so overrated. Trees are nice and all, but goshdarnit Steve’s poor little po-po is sore! Oh, and I’ll call the polar bears to let them know that they get to starve to death up north just so Steve can feel a little more comfy down below the equator.”
“My wife left me,” he went on, ignoring my sarcasm. “My kids hate me. Even the dog won’t come near me. This morning, I think I felt something squirming around up there. I have no idea what it is. Frankly, I’m afraid to look.”
“I’ll tell you what it is!” I exclaimed. “It’s an ecosystem! Don’t you see? It would be genocide to wipe your ass now! Sorry, Steve-o, but you’re going to have to just suck it up and live with a little discomfort like the rest of us.”
“’Rest of us’ my @$#*%!” Steve spat back.
“What do you mean?” I asked, eying him suspiciously.
“I mean you look pretty damn cozy sitting there on your supposedly raw and strangely odor-free backside all day. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d been wiping your ass on the sly, Dickiebrid!”
I sprang out of my chair and pointed an accusing finger at him. “You take that back! I haven’t wiped my ass in weeks! My butt stinks like you wouldn't believe! I have dangleberries the size of Volvos! So don’t you DARE question my commitment to the cause! I have the greenest rectum in this company, and don't you forget it!"
“Sure, whatever you say, Dickiebird,” he replied, his voice lowering to a whisper. “But I sure wouldn’t want such a vicious rumor to get around the office, if you know what I mean.”
Ah, blackmail, is it? Damn that Crow! I know celebrities are used to living a life of luxury, but does she have any idea what a bad example she’s setting with her little extravagance? No matter. We down here on the front lines of the war will take up the slack. Yes, it is a war – a war not only against Bush’s Big Toilet Paper buddies, but a war to save our planet from those who would wipe their asses with the future of our planet.
As I watched Steve crawl away with his ill-gotten square of toilet paper, I knew deep down that even despite Crow’s selfish remarks, it’s a war that we will win.
