Where’s my bog-standard bog-roll?

I’m pretty upset today. I found a promotional roll of three-ply toilet paper in my pack of two-ply. If I wanted three-ply, I’d have bought it, dammit.

I use two-ply Baby Soft toilet paper, made by Kimberly-Clark of South Africa. Elsewhere, it may be known by different brand names, like Cottonelle or Andrex, but basically, it’s the best a bum can get. People who use other brands annoy me, and I worry deeply about people who use only single-ply when they can afford better. How can you trust people like that?

In my bathroom, toilet paper hangs with the sheets coming from underneath, so a deft one-handed manoeuver involving a yank and a well-timed tap with the thumb is all that’s needed to sever the required length. I’ve got it down to a fine art, and get exactly the same number of sheets every single time. Even when I’m drunk. I cannot for the life of me grasp the convoluted brain contortions that are necessary to deal with any other way of hanging a toilet roll. My method may be controversial, but it’s me.

Bog roll should be soft. None of this recycled 220-grit stuff, or industrial-strength tissue with the texture and absorbency of cheap newsprint. I demand expensive, luxury softness, as only Baby Soft two-ply delivers. With micro-pocket technology.

Bog roll should be white. Not with pastel butterflies on it. Not with pictures of George Bush on it. Not with funny-ha-ha images of the Rolling Stones tongue. Not with prints of Hello Kitty, which is just sick. Just bog-standard white, of the kind you achieve by adding copious amounts of poisonous bleach as you manufacture your expensive, luxury, soft, white two-ply Baby Soft.

So now I discover this offending three-ply roll in my pack of two-ply, wrapped in a separate promotional cardboard wrapping. That idiotic marketing gimmick alone was a right pain, considering that I grabbed the roll in question when my injured cat wet my bed. This was not the time to make me remove unrequested advertising from the roll, or ask me to read it. Time was of the essence.

Then I got around to hanging the remainder of the roll in the bathroom, but the remainder wasn’t much, since it has only 230 sheets. That’s 120 fewer sheets than comparable two-ply. If I wanted less toilet paper on a roll, I’d have bought it that way. Face it, you’re not going to use only two-thirds of your customary length, which is what the marketing scum are counting on. So they’re ripping you off. And that’s not counting the fact that 230 times 1.5 is 345, not 350, which is what you’d get on a two-ply roll. So they’re ripping you off twice. By contrast, 350 times 2 is 700, which is considerably more than the 500 sheets you get with single-ply toilet paper. So one-ply is stupid, two-ply is a bargain, and three-ply is a ripoff.

As if this torment wasn’t enough, I discovered that my skillful yank-pause-tap technique for severing the required length doesn’t work with this newfangled bog-roll, because the paper is too thick. You need two hands to tear it sheet from sheet — pull, stop the roll, find the perforation, and with a hand on either side of it, tear — which is annoying and inefficient. Moreover, I found it too thick for my liking. I won’t go into detail, but single-ply is too thin, and three-ply is too thick, which is why I buy two-ply. Dammit.

Why can’t they just give me what I choose to buy? I’m paying for it, after all. Most importantly, don’t mess with my toilet routine. I was potty trained 35 years ago. I don’t want to have to acquire new habits just because some marketer thought they’d give me something I don’t want. Not for free as an added extra, but in stead of one of the two-ply rolls I’d normally get.

So, Kimberly-Clark marketing drones, if you insist on marketing at me, put some more of those little fluffy toy puppies in the pack. Kids love them, and my dogs think they’re real and carry them around everywhere. That’s cute. Springing three-ply on me when I’m faced with a cat-pee disaster is just plain evil. Do not ever do that again.