Angel Soft is NOT

I was all set to begin a new feature here on IYROOBTY, Public Restroom Reviews. (I'm sure you're looking forward to that.) But that will have to be put on hold for the time being due to a more pressing issue.

Recently, I was in the grocery store and among my items to pick up was toilet paper. My normal choice is Scott Extra Soft or Cottonelle. But lately my local store only sells Cottonelle in the 12-roll Jumbo size, or what I like to call the bad-Chinese-food pack. I refuse to buy anything bigger than the 4-roll size, or what I like to call the bachelor pack. On this particular day they were out of Scott Extra Soft, so my choices were Angel Soft, Quilted Northern or Charmin Ultra Soft.

I'm not sure what happened, but you know the little guy inside your head that keeps you from saying and doing stupid things? Well mine must've taken a few seconds off -- maybe he was gawking at the cute cashier or something, I don't know -- because in that instant, I violated one of the cardinal rules of life: Never go cheap when it comes to toilet paper, tattoos, and hookers. (Not that I have any experience at all with the latter two.)

In my inexplicable moment of poor judgment, I decided upon the least expensive of the three options, which was Angel Soft. What can I say, they lured me in with that picture of a soft baby and fluffy clouds. I mean, how bad could it be?

Well, I don't think I am capable of answering that question without cursing, so we'll just move along.

I got one-and-a-half rolls into that four-pack and had to go back and buy another brand -- the toilet paper equivalent of walking out of a movie early. So if I appear a bit bow-legged, please understand.

After investigating a bit further, I found out Angel Soft is manufactured by Georgia-Pacific. Isn't that a railroad? No wonder! Might as well buy toilet paper made by Stihl. And I don't see the soft-baby-fluffy-white-cloud connection at all! Maybe you'll cry like a baby when you use it?

For now, I'm on the Charmin Ultra Soft train. That's the package with the momma bear and baby bear, if you're curious. And as their slogan says, "Using less never felt so good."

In the end I'm left with a valuable, if painful, lesson relearned; two full rolls of the Angel Soft; and even more proof of what a sensitive guy I truly am.

"Please don't squeeze my Sharmon. Don't hold her so tight. You'd best heed my warnin', it's the last one tonight..."

A Czar is born

Dear Mister President,

Please consider this my application for the not-yet-created-but-long-overdue position of Public Toilet Czar.

First allow me to explain why I feel I am most qualified for this not-yet-created-but-long-overdue position.

I have used public toilets all my life. I was raised by parents who have a great appreciation for bathrooms, in general. My dad spent an inordinate amount of time in there when I was growing up. And my Mom is a one-stop source for the cleanest public restrooms in town. And might I humbly add, sir, that I feel I have taken their neuroses to entirely new heights.

My best guesstimate says that over 99% of Americans will use a public toilet in his or her lifetime. That's nearly... seven-eighths of our entire population. (What? I'm the Public Toilet Czar, not the Math and Science Czar.) And while we've come a long way since the outhouse--well, except for the port-a-potty--we have a long way to go. I feel I am the only one to lead us down that porcelain and tile highway.

Just the other day I was in a convenience store men's room and the paper towel dispenser was empty. In the United States of America in the year 2009, this is inexcusable. Therefore, as my first act as Public Toilet Czar, it will be illegal for any business or other public facility to have a restroom with an empty paper towel dispenser.

Not only that, but all paper towel dispensers and faucets will be motion activated, thus negating the need for anyone to ever have to touch a germ-infested handle or lever again. And all hand blowers will be outlawed! For Pete's sake, we put a man on the moon--allegedly--surely we can eliminate the primitive practice of standing in a malodorous room for two minutes waiting for our hands to dry.

As my second order of business, I will require that all public toilet doors open outward. Nothing irks me more than washing my hands thoroughly, drying them, then realizing I have to grab a bacteria-riddled handle to open the door and exit the restroom. This is a matter of public health. No American should get sick simply because they use a public restroom. And while I look forward to working with Health and Human Services Secretary Sebelius on this, I estimate this simple act alone could cut down on the number of swine flu cases in this country by at least 0.01%.

The final part of my three-pronged plan as the new Czar de Johns will be to post my rules of male restroom etiquette (see enclosure) in every public restroom in this country. Anyone found to be violating these rules will be issued one warning. A second offense will result in capital punishment. Too harsh? OK, deportation. Still? Fine, a second offense will result in the offender being under public toilet arrest. This means they will be forced to wear a monitoring bracelet and will be banned from public toilets nationwide for a period of time to be determined by a one-man panel consisting of me. Just think of me as the Roger Goodell of toilets.

My plan can only work if everyone does their part. Therefore, businesses who install partitions between urinals will receive a tax credit. The same goes for those who display the USA Today under glass on the wall above the urinal. I spent ten minutes in there one day reading an enthralling story about Misty May and Kerri Walsh. Also, I will appoint a six-woman panel to come up with the rules of female restroom etiquette. They will also report back to me on why women take so long in there. Come on, sir, you know you're curious.

I feel a strong majority of Americans still want and support a public option for going to the restroom. Therefore I will not back down. My goal is to make each and every person feel as comfortable with going in a public toilet as they would be sitting in their own bathroom at home--one pant leg completely off, a nice gardenia-scented candle burning as they skim through a Better Homes & Gardens magazine.

Now, these are the main points of my plan, and while there remain some details to be ironed out, I have never been very good at ironing. So we'll just go with this for now.

Let me close with a quote (that I have amended slightly) from someone famous. Some men see things as they are and ask why. I dream of public toilets that never were and say why not.

The time to act is now. Don't let our country go down the toilet. Rather, let our toilets rise to meet us. This is my calling. This is pretty much all I think about.

Give my best to Mrs. Obama, Kasha and little Maria.

PS: If my application is inexplicably denied, I will accept an autographed picture of President Clinton instead. Thanks.

"O beautiful for patriot dream that sees beyond the years. Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears..."

The floaty ball's connected to the...

I've been having an issue in the bathroom for several weeks now. And as you may have figured out from Male Restroom Etiquette and some of my other writings, I do not always adhere to the old adage, "What happens in the john stays in the john." So prepare yourselves.

Some time ago, I went to flush and--how shall I put this--it didn't go down. The whole swirling/draining mechanism came to a complete stop. Through trial and error, I found that if I held the handle down for approximately 4 to 7 seconds, the flush cycle would complete. And so, this is how I've been living for several months now--holding down the handle to ensure a full and proper flush. This went on for so long that whenever I used a toilet that flushed properly, it caught me off guard.

Then Friday, more trouble erupted. The water wouldn't stop running after a flush--a not uncommon problem in toilet circles. So I did what any normal person would do. I jiggled the handle. And waited.

It kept running.

So what do I do when something goes wrong around the house? Eventually, I call the property manager. But not before I have a look at the situation myself.

Do I consider myself a handyman? Let me put it this way: I do not. Not in the class of a Bob Vila, Al Borland, or Handyman Negri anyway.

But I am a man. Therefore I possess an unshakable, innate belief that I am equipped with the ability and know-how to fix any device, grill any meat, and find any place on Earth without asking for directions. And so, I took the lid off the back of the toilet and looked inside. Also known as, pretending to know what I'm doing.

You may think a toilet is nothing more than a base, a seat, a lid, a hole, a tank, and sparkling blue liquid that magically fills the bowl when you flush. But the inner workings of this magnificent invention are as intricate and complex as any simple lever or pulley machine.

As I opened the lid, I saw the familiar floaty ball, the chain, the bendy tube, and the stopper thingy. (These are all highly technical terms. No need to concern yourself with them at this point.) My keen eye noticed that one arm of the stopper thingy was broken. Aha!

Now what to do? I knew the property manager wouldn't come out for something like this until Monday. So it was either run up a $200 water bill, cut the water off and go to a public restroom anytime I had to go, or plunge my hands into the bacteria-infested waters and try to fix it myself. *shudder* Talk about a germophobic nightmare. I'd rather lick a shoe.

It wasn't an easy decision. But the Taco Bell bathroom really wasn't all that bad.

I'm kidding. I went to Wal-Mart and found a stopper thingy, which they call a flapper--layman's terms, I'm sure. Then I came home, got out one of the four or five tool sets Dad has given me for Christmases past, and entered the bathroom, which had just become my personal workshop.

Not surprisingly, or very surprisingly, I was able to affix the flapper to the crapper with fleeting aplomb and only nominal water spillage. I didn't even have to use any of my tools. Just some scissors.

And who knows, maybe in thirty or forty years, my hands will feel clean again.

"I washed my hands in muddy water. Washed my hands, but they didn't come clean..."