Death to Kimberly Clarke

I fucking hate Kimberly Clarke. Everyone knows who she is. Even if you live in a shitty corner of South Ankara, you know this cunt. She's the one who seems to stock every public restroom in existence with the thinnest of half-ply toilet paper with the transparency features of dried cheesecloth combined with the absorption ability of phyllo dough. The number of squarelets needed for each consecutive ass-wipe does lessen, ever, for fear of accidentally stuffing your fingers up your asshole. This is the fear with which I live, every time I come in contact with a public toilet - not the possibility of contracting HIV or HPV from the toilet seat, not the possibility of the hems of my jeans becoming soaked in a urine so yellow it would rival the latest shade of goldenrod of this season's sun dresses, but the very real possibility that my finger may somehow slip into the vacuous hole that all living creatures share. Fuck you, Kimberly Clarke, for making the defecation process in public even more complex than it ever needed to be with your hundreds of thousands of yards of cheesecloth on that gargantuan cheese wheel of a toilet paper spool.