A few days ago, in a moment of sizzling hemorrhoidal flare-up, I dodged into my in-laws' bathroom desperately seeking relief. I've been using their facilities for the past seven years, so I entered their guest-bath fully expecting to find a small box of moist-bum-towelettes perched upon the back of the commode.
In case you're not familiar, these bum-towelettes are very similar to baby-wipes. The only differences are: they're smaller, the packaging does not feature a logo of a bear holding a balloon, and they're fully intended for adults. If I had to give it my best guess, my mother-in-law keeps a package on hand in case a guest inadvertently sharts himself during an uncontrolled fit of laughter. If that gesture alone doesn't make her the Hostess-with-the-Mostess, then I'm convinced that there's no such thing.
The moment I crossed the bathroom threshold, I saw that heavenly little box gently whispering the words 'cooling sensation' and within one quarter of a second I had dropped trou. With my pants firmly around my ankles, I hopped toward the toilet with bold determination--and if you know me personally, then you know that I seriously suck at hopping.
Just for a moment, I want you to close your eyes and imagine that you have the itchiest arse in the history of mankind. Now I want you to go deep within yourself and imagine how it must have felt when I discovered an empty box of bum-towelettes.
Devastating. That's how it felt.
Fortunately, hope was briefly restored when I spotted a full container of towelettes sitting right next to the empty one. Without a moment of hesitation I tore open the container, ripped out a wipe, and did what I needed to do to tame that evil little roid.
And that my friends, is the moment that I screamed like a woman tied to a set of train tracks and briefly blacked out--or perhaps it was a long blink, I really can't be sure. When I finally came to, I could barely tolerate the pain. It felt like satan himself had nestled in my pants and launched a fire ball right into the crack of my you-know-what.
Sweat was rolling down my brow, I was on my knees clawing the bath mat in agony, and before my swear filter had a chance to kick in I'm pretty sure I said, "@#$# &^%!@) &^%!@ &*(^% MEREDITHHHHHH!!!!" That's my mother-in-law's name.
After the pain had dulled to a wavy throb, I coaxed myself off the floor, picked up the second container of wipes--the one that had done this horrible thing to me--and read the label aloud: Lysol Sanitizing Wipes Waterfall Scent. I damn near died all over again.
Moral of the story--read before you wipe.