Reflections on Toilet Paper

In the COVID-19 era, nothing is certain save for the importance of toilet paper. No matter where we reside, we have all heard about the toilet paper shortages in the wake of the global pandemic. Panicked hoarders were quick to strip the shelves of TP. For all that was (and is still) up in the air, one thing became clear: if they were destined to meet god, the consuming masses wanted to do so with clean anuses. Moreover, toilet paper shortages presented some consumers with difficult existential questions.

This was certainly the case in my jurisdiction. Two days ago, I broke my writerly self-isolation (which had already been established in the pre-coronavirus era) and ventured out to the grocery store, where I found the toilet paper shelves bare. I stared into pure, unqualified emptiness between the facial tissue and the paper towel, each of which remained well-stocked.

Gazing into the void, I was reminded of an anecdote a friend of mine had shared on the weekend previous, just as COVID-19 had really dug in its spikes, and society had started to grind to a halt. He lingered for a while in the paper-products aisle of his local grocer, watching as people came face to face with the toilet paper deficit. He observed that the vast majority of these shoppers, tasked with an impromptu choice for anal hygiene alternatives, opted for paper towel. Consequently, the paper towel had depleted relative to the facial tissue, which still brimmed on the shelves.

This evidence is anecdotal, but it allows us to tender a hypothesis a posteriori: the majority prefers paper towel to tissue as an ass-wiping substitute. They would rather have the firmness and absorptive power of paper towel than the gauzy caress of Kleenex and its competitors. Even though the paper towel is potentially abrasive and toilet-clogging, it prevails over the facial tissue, the latter's breezy tactility notwithstanding. Perhaps this is simply because paper towel, like toilet paper, comes on a roll. Or perhaps, in the absence of toilet paper, people's priorities shift. Everyone seeks an immaculate anus, but when the ideal wipe is unavailable, cleanliness of the fingers and hands becomes a crucial tiebreaker. While paper towel may scrape and, moreover, create flushing complications, there is little chance that it will disintegrate mid-wipe. The durability of Kleenex is comparably dubious.

In the COVID-19 era, then, the consuming classes may very well be divided into an ad hoc caste system. At the top will be the champion hoarders with their stockpiles of toilet paper and their impeccable anuses. In the middle will be the not so fleet, whose anuses are wiped raw, but whose hands are clean. At the bottom will be the Kleenex people, for whom there are no guarantees re: the cleanliness of hand or hind—these are the untouchables, though such a designation is moot in a social world mandating that no one can stand within two yards of anyone else.

Faced with the empty toilet paper shelf, and presented with a choice of the alternatives on either side, I decided to defer my choice. Instead, I put my money towards buying more food. I reasoned that, if things got worse (as indeed they have), I'd prefer a surplus of food to that of wiping material. After all, I wanted to guarantee that I would continue to be able to produce poops. For the foreseeable future, I would concentrate on nourishing myself, and worry about wiping on a case-by-case basis.

On a full stomach, I’ve had no shortage of ideas with respect to improvisation. Certainly, being a mostly unsuccessful member of the writing community helps. If this pandemic persists and I can't leave the house, I've got stacks of old rejected manuscripts, not to mention lots of reading material produced by my competitors in the field. COVID-19 just might give me a chance to make it all worth the paper its printed on. From that perspective, my bookshelves are well-stocked with toilet paper alternatives.