Jingle Butts

I don’t know why I’ve been so exhausted lately. Workwise I don’t really have any more on my plate than I did in November; lifewise, ditto. My Christmas shopping is done, gifts are wrapped and under the tree, party obligations fulfilled. Nothing left but to gorge myself on eggnog and imported iced gingerbread.

Despite all this, my body is acting like I just ran back-to-back Tough Mudders or something, because apparently if I can’t give it a legitimate excuse to complain then it’ll damn well just make one up.

Because it’s a douche.

So I grabbed a Groupon and hauled my douchey body to the spa to have a much too friendly and energetic lady beat the everloving shit out of it treat it to a nice, restorative deep tissue massage.

But before we got started, I paid their washroom a visit and was greeted by this:

I just love it when businesses find creative ways to incorporate their spare toilet paper into the decor.

Here we have all the makings of a great festive holiday basket: a bed of terrycloth and fragrant potpourri; a bare tree branch, signifying the bleak sparseness of winter; a handful of sturdy pine cones whose seeds will bring forth new life in the coming year; a roll of bathroom tissue, symbolic of pure white snow and the future act of writing one’s name in it…


Okay, so it’s not exactly a museum-worthy work of toilet tissue art, but points for trying, right?

I do think the spa could elevate their decor efforts even further with the right choice of soundtrack. The standard soft flute melodies and rainforest noises they tend to favor are pretty, but predictable.

In my opinion you can never go wrong with a return to the classics. Personally, I think a little “Air on the G String” would complement their chosen theme perfectly.

See? Lovely.

How to trap The Nut, in one easy step.

I know you all think I’m pretty awesome and infallible by now (just play along, here) but contrary to what Nutty Hubby insists on telling everyone, I’m not perfect.

Yeah, I have trouble believing it too.

But just like Superman – and I’m not saying I’m Superman, but it’s true that Superman and I have never been seen in the same room at the same time, so make what you will of that – I have a weakness that can be exploited.

Are you ready? Are you prepared to learn the closely guarded secret scheme that is guaranteed to foil The Nut every time? It’s pretty easy, there’s only one step to follow.

  • Step 1: Own a bathroom.

That’s it. I told you it was easy.

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The return of Madam Rorschach.

Remember how I told you about Madam Rorschach’s unsavory oeuvres d’art? And how she was coming back from vacation after two weeks of the office toilet being spoiled spotless?

Well, either she was suffering from a creative block (mental or physical, take your pick) or just decided to give the toilet and I a grace period to readjust to her presence, because her first week back came and went without any new additions to the Sistine Crapper. And silly me, I made a terrible mistake. I got my hopes up that maybe, just maybe, she had had some miraculous epiphany during her time away and realized that the art world was not for her after all.

Live and learn, people, live and learn. Because today I discovered…

This is what I get for being an optimist.

Even so, I’m suitably impressed that she made it through a whole week without any displays of shartistry. Maybe I’ll bake her a cake to commemorate the achievement.

Although a bran muffin might be more appropriate.

We need to talk about toilets.

Warning: this post primarily concerns bodily functions. I’m sorry, I know we’re still just getting to know each other and I’m springing bathroom talk on you already, but I never promised this blog would be pretty.

You see, my office has an “artist” in its midst. A Jackson Pollock imitator most foul. Her canvas, the loo; her medium, poo.

…I sincerely apologize for that, but I couldn’t resist the rhyme.

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