Saint Louis University should be a safe place to learn.
According to campus legend, our Department of Public Safety is the
second-largest police force in Missouri, virtually ensuring
protection from Midtown miscreants.
Sadly, it’s not enough. To the shame of these guardian angels,
hundreds of students and faculty are accosted every day in
buildings across campus.
Fortunately, it’s not too late. If “shared governance” really
exists, our campus leaders will cooperate to stop the suffering,
install two-ply toilet paper in every bathroom on campus and let
the healing begin.
Living in the plush confines of my Village apartment, it was
easy to forget the toilet tribulations of my younger days. Gone
were the horrors of “Greek Nacho Night” at the cafeteria, and the
subsequent sprint for my floor’s two bathrooms thereafter.
This year I eat healthily and poop privately, surrounded by a
miniature library of fine literature and luxurious two-ply toilet
paper.
A cooking disaster last week changed all that. Since my last
column, I’ve been watching the Food Network constantly, trying to
crack the elusive mysteries of cooking.
My man Emeril assured me that meat should be cooked with a hint
of pink in the center, and I naturally supposed that chicken was
prepared the same way.
Yikes, I haven’t seen trots that bad since Smarty Jones choked
at the Belmont Stakes.
The first two trips to the commode occurred in the serenity of
my apartment. A few prayers and half a can of air freshener later,
I thought this mild case of food poisoning had at last subsided. I
thought wrong.
Trip number three began with an unholy stomach rumbling around 3
p.m. in Xavier Hall. A slight shift in posture only amplified my
discomfort.
Woe is me, I had to use a public restroom. The experience itself
was akin to childbirth, the toilet subject to a bombing assault
unseen since Hiroshima. Fortunately, the gentleman after me was a
ROTC guy and had a gas mask handy.
As if the indignity of dropping the kids off at a communal pool
wasn’t bad enough, I had to wipe my pampered posterior with
single-ply toilet paper.
Next time, I’ll use a razor blade instead–it might hurt
less.
Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised by the University’s miserly
attitude toward its butt floss. After all, we’re expected to supply
the paper for our syllabi, why not extend this logic to the
bathroom?
Next time I’m shopping for another ream of printer paper, I’ll
add a roll of Charmin to my backpack as well.
Under Father Biondi’s leadership, the current administration has
great plans for the future, but I demand help for the present.
Before I can sit down in an arena seat, I need to sit down in a
campus commode with two-ply toilet paper.
It’s time for the SLU community to hunker down and wipe out this
harsh single-ply regime.
