LORD OF THE T.P.

I have a secret.  I take pleasure in listening to the ranting frustrations of people sifting through the toilet stalls in a public bathroom looking for a roll of toilet paper.   The kicker is when I’M the one in the stall with that ONE last roll.  It’s usually long after I have finished with my business and I am just sitting on the toilet reading the stall graffiti and just generally relaxing that they come in.  They curse under their breath as they go up and down the aisle of stalls, opening each one until reaching the last one, and then starting from the beginning again and repeating, as if the T.P. gnomes will replenish the supplies in the meantime.  Now, as I am typically the only one in the stalls, since I am the only one who successfully obtained that single roll of T.P., it’s pretty obvious, to outsiders, that I’ve got the goods.  So, what these jackasses always do is after rampaging their way in and out of the empty stalls, repeatedly, they stand right outside of MY stall door.  They know I have the T.P.   Their shoe tips damn near penetrating into my stall perimeter from under the door, as if testing some imaginary line in the sand.  I can hear them breathing and can almost sense the neurons in their brain firing, contemplating whether or not they should bother me for some of my T.P., and how they would even go about asking for something like that.  I just sit there as quietly as possible.  It’s like, if you were in a zombie apocalypse scenario and you were on one side of a door, of an abandoned house, that didn’t have a lock.  On the other side was a horde of the undead just hoping to tear a living human limb from limb, just one shove of that door away from getting to you.  Your only tactical option is to be as quite as possible; not moving; not indicating you are there at all, so as not to alert them.  The outsider finally realizes that decorum dictates that it is extremely rude to ask a fellow shitter for some of their toilet paper because of the potential for them to be in mid-shit.  How would you even transfer T.P. to them anyways?  How would you even determine how much shitting they’d be doing therefore how much T.P. they would need?  Are they a muti-wiper?  What do you do; hand them a wad of it or scoot the whole roll, itself, out from under the stall to them?  If you hand them a wad of loose T.P. then you just determined their fate.  If they get into their stall and the wad amount that you issued to them is not enough; they are screwed.  They’ll have to go caveman style and hand scoop it or sacrifice their underwear.   As far as pushing your T.P. roll out to them (which you would be an idiot to do) you would be screwing YOURSELF.  What if you then needed to go again, all of a sudden, or had leakage while standing up, then YOU’D be in real trouble.  I just sit in silence, that way I don’t even have to deal with that whole rigamarole.  If I WAS asked, though, I would ration out the T.P. like a King rationing out bread and cheese to his serfs.  “ONE double ply sheet, TWO double ply sheets, THREE double ply sheets, now be gone with ye peasant before I set the dogs upon ye!”  It gives you a sense of power and dominance.  Like having an elevated position in combat.  You have the dominant position and therefore all the outsiders must bow to you for offerings of T.P.   As Erasmus of Rotterdam put it, “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king”, and as Rusty Shrew puts it, “In the public bathroom, the man with the last roll of T.P. is king.”