Monday, August 20, 2007
A MEA CULPA FROM THE POWDER ROOM
I have a confession to make. This egregious sin has been haunting me, weighing on my chest for a long time, and it's time to set it free:
I'm a thief.
The worst, most devious kind of low-grade thief:
I routinely steal rolls of toilet paper from restaurants and bars all over Manhattan.
And once in Brooklyn.
My life of crime takes on a multi-cultural slant that would impress any UN delegate. I have stolen from Korean Barbeque joints, Irish pubs, French bistros, and Spanish tapas bars.
It's surprisingly easy. And I have to assume that New York is relatively devoid of thieving toilet paper scum like me, because these places make it too tempting: they leave stacks of toilet paper rolls out in the open, ripe for the nabbing. And if I don't have a big bag on me, I will coerce my pals to stuff their voluminous bags, thereby aiding and abetting my thug life.
It isn't that I cannot afford to buy toilet paper. It's that I can never remember to buy it. And there is nothing worse than sitting on the john and realizing there is no toilet paper. This means making the pants-'round-the ankles dash to find a stray cocktail napkin. Consequently I have wiped my ass with Bachelorette Party salutations, Pink Elephants, Jolly Jack-o-Lanterns and Frosty the Snowman.
Not sure what it says about me, but even when there is no butt wipe at my place, there are always cocktail napkins.
I feel better now. Very cathartic.
But the question is:
How many Hail Marys do you think my crime deserves?