There’s a tiny piece of toilet paper, about an inch square, that’s been stuck to the underside of our toilet lid for about a week now. The only time I notice it is when I’m standing there with my…well you can imagine. Every time I see it I think to myself “hey, look at that, it’s still there” – so much so that it has become like an old friend, familiar…reassuring. And sure, if I wanted to, I could pick it off and flush it, but then I would be robbing myself of one of life’s greatest pleasures…wondering if Stewie also notices Old Scrappy, as I’ve come to call it, and if he shares the same fond endearments for our tenacious little mascot.
Also, my hands aren’t free.
But where did Scrappy come from? I mean, whose is he? He’s like a poor orphaned son of a husband’s mistress – an illegitimate urchin left unwanted and unloved; literally clinging to the only world he knows. I don’t know who’s responsible for him, and quite frankly I don’t want to. The fact that Scrappy has lingered for so long in porcelain limbo, unacknowledged, remains an unspoken testament that neither of us are ready to claim responsibility. We pass in the hall, avoiding eye contact and muttering hollow pleasantries. And who can blame us? It’s a big responsibility. The ramifications are terrifying. No, best to promise no false illusions. Life is cold and dark, and Scrappy must learn the hard way that out there there will be no coddling…no hands held. We must have faith that one fateful day, Scrappy will blossom into adulthood and go out into the world under his own power.
These have been my thoughts over the past few days. They have brought me no small amount of mirth and jubilance, as I stand under the hard bathroom light joined only by the occasional stifled murmuring through the vent and my own reflection in the mirror, several times a day. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell my gentlemen readers how important it is to keep your laughter somewhat restrained while you’re wringing your sock out.