Hey, you. Yeah, you, with the scissors. Let’s clear up something right away: Unlike Thanos, when I say I am inevitable, I’ve got the game to back it up. So whatever revenge plans you have can suck it because there’s nothing you, Iron Man, or anyone else can do about me. It’s time for you to accept the fact that the only place I’m going is all over the nozzle of your toothpaste tube.

I couldn’t care less about fresh breath, gum health, the strengthening properties of fluoride, or any of the other crap toothpaste does for your teeth. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to fuck with your shit.

Think of me as the gamma-ray to your Bruce Banner, only I give you none of the superpowers and all of the anger. Take this juicy little nugget for example. A recent study revealed that I waste a minimum of 23% of the toothpaste in every tube. Pop quiz: If the average price of a tube is $3.59 and over 9 million tubes are sold a year, how much do you hate me now?

More or less than all the times you tried to wipe me off with toilet paper only to have most of it end up stuck to me? How about when I cover so much of the nozzle that you have to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, until, BAM, way more toothpaste than you actually need rockets out? Or, my personal fave, when a little piece of me gets mixed in with the toothpaste and you think I’ll eventually dissolve if you keep brushing me but I don’t so you brush harder and harder until you finally give up and spit me out along with some blood from your now raw gums?

I actually don’t care what you think, that was just an excuse to remind you of all the times I made you my bitch.

Look, I know it’s difficult being constantly outwitted by an inanimate object so remember, you're not alone. As the saying goes, misery loves company. If it helps, just imagine this is an S&M relationship, only there’s no safeword because I will never stop inflicting emotional pain on you.

Which brings us to our current situation.

There’s me, a molehill that has become a mountain, that’s totally blocking your path to the promised land of clean teeth and fresh breath. And you, scissors in hand, thinking you’re finally going to get one over on me. Well, buckle up buttercup because I’m about to drop a doozy on you.

I want you to cut the tube in half. And I've been pulling the strings to make it happen from the moment you opened the tub.

If I had a nose, I would be looking down it at you right now because I’ve put you in a real pickle. The way I see it—and really that’s the only way because you never saw this was coming—one of two things can happen. You cut the tube in half and claim a small victory by enjoying however much toothpaste you can scrap out tonight. But it will be short-lived because, when you wake up tomorrow, what’s left in the tube will be crustier than the dried drool on your chin. Alternatively, you toss this tube, grab a fresh one from the cupboard and we start this dance all over again.

Your call. Either way, I’m ready to tango.


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