in the purest sense of the phrase.
The price of toilet paper is that of which I speak.
I begrudge every penny I spend for something that is going to end up, literally, in the toilet.
In the sewer.
In the septic tank.
I imagine were Mr. Whipple alive today, he would be mad as a hatter that you can’t get (whisper) toilet paper, for practically free.
How do they get away with charging so much?
Because the companies know that unless you are willing to gather leaves and, heaven forbid, pine cones, you will pay for their soft as cotton paper to protect your sensitive derrière in your time of need.
It makes me purely mad.
Not mad enough to gather leaves and pine cones, but mad anyway.
I suppose I could have blogged about a number of things … like how I gave blood today, or how the snow on my favorite trees on Big Moccasin looked or maybe even how I wish fervently that I could visit my beloved falls and see them frozen.
But I didn’t.
Because I had to pay over ten dollars for toilet paper.
I can buy a fifth of liquor for less than that and, if I partook in such a purchase, would likely not care whether I have TP or not.
I want world peace as much as the next person, but at the end of the day, if you run out of toilet paper, well … you’re pretty much screwed.