I was on the toilet for “Round 5” by 2 in the afternoon the other day and before I even got in there I could tell it was going to be a knockout. And by knockout, I mean one of those shits that leaves you feeling like you just took coarse grain toilet paper to your tender balloon knot. As I hobbled out of the bathroom in a “hunchback of Notre Dame” fashion, I received an onslaught of crude remarks from my observant buddies.

While I sat there in silence, beaten and battered by the wrath of my ass, unable to retaliate with a halfway decent comeback, I got to thinking that my ass has too much pull in my life. It really dictates what I do and don't do; I feel as if it's a separate entity with constant mood swings that basically bully me around.

I decided I'm not gonna take it anymore. In an effort to even the playing field I will start an “Ass Wipers Union” which will go on strike ‘til our demands are met. Naturally, we will refuse to wipe until our demands are met. We will picket with hard hitting signs like “Wipe yourself” and “Cut the shit.” When they can't take it anymore they will be forced to negotiate, and I will lead the negotiations because I am fluent in ass.

When the time comes, I imagine the negotiations will go something like this (bear with me, I have yet to master onomatopoeia):

Ass: Pffft

Me: So as you know there's been unrest within the union and we've made a list of demands…. Shall I continue?

Me: Alright, first and foremost you're shitting entirely too much—4 to 5 times a day is ridiculous. We're spending almost 2 hours a day in the bathroom. And we're talking vile craps that would bring your dad to tears, no compact floaters. I haven't even had a ghost shit in 6 months. We want 1 to 2 shits a day at no more than 6 wipes a session.

Ass: Pfffttt

Me: What do you mean that's ridiculous? …Alright, we'll settle at 2-3 shits a day at 6 wipes…. but we want one single-wipe session a week. Agreed?

Ass: Pffffft

Me: Okay, now we're getting somewhere. Next order of business, farting…

Ass: Pffft pffft

Me: It’s just a warning that General Shit is making his way down the canal? Ha… yeah…. Seriously, though you've got to cut down. It's funny when we're grocery shopping and we run to the next aisle to watch people's reactions, but it's getting embarrassing. You made your presence known during a eulogy the other night, do you even know what it's like to get kicked out of a wake?! You're out of control. I demand consensual farts—unless both parties agree, you keep it quiet.

Ass: Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffftttt

Me: Hey, don't get loud with me.

Ass: pfffft pfffft PFFFFFFFFFFTTT

Me: You're out of line!

Ass: pffftpffftpffffttttttttt

Me: Oh, I'm an asshole? Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black. You've become so abusive.

Ass: pfft

Me: Enough, we're all adults here.


Me: Alright, we need to reach an agreement on the subject of flatulence.

Ass: -pfft -pfft- pfft -pfft

Me: Hmmm, that sounds like a good compromise. Agreed, consensual farts ‘til 10PM and anytime after is fair game. Okay, so our last problem is “riding dirty.” I wipe sufficiently and then an hour later it's like I never wiped at all.

Ass: pffft pfffffffft

Me: HAHA, you're right, I do wipe like a second grader. I'll work on it. So we're all good then?

Ass: -pffft

Me: Oh, you have demands? Let's hear them…

Ass: pffft—pffft—pffft

Me: Okay, I can give you full bathroom privileges to my girlfriend's house, but only after 6 months.

Ass: -pffft

Me: Awesome, anything else?

Ass: pffft pfft

Me: Come on man, scented two-ply? That's pretty shit, don't you think?

Ass: -pffft

Me: Yeah yeah, I know, I didn’t forget about college. We'll do the two-ply… scented. Friends again?

Ass: -pfffft -pffft -pffft

Then we hug and make up, and the whole room turns into a sloppy scene of crying men and hugging asses. The strike is over and things are right with the world again…. for the time being.