Buying toilet paper sucks
The problem with buying toilet paper is that we usually only ever remember to do it when we're out of it, often finding ourselves sitting on the toilet with our pants around our ankles staring in horror at the few measly scraps of tattered paper clinging pathetically to the cardboard core. The ensuing debacle where we get up and shuffle around in a semi-crouch with our pants pulled half way up our legs hoping no dangling chunks of doo doo are about to fall out of our butt and on to the carpet as we curse God for doing this to us and search desperately around the flat for napkins and paper towels (which are also usually out), before finally settling on some old electricity bills to wipe our asses with, is not our finest moment. But hey, at least nobody can see you… which reminds you, you should have closed those curtains first.
Some of us are sometimes lucky enough to notice we're out of toilet paper right before we have to plop. This is as much forewarning as we're going to get, because unless we need to relieve ourselves then and there, we're not going to bother going out to buy toilet paper. In fact we'll just tell ourselves "I'll buy some next time I go shopping", which we will always forget to do, and thus find ourselves back where this article began: having just taken an enormous dump and realizing that we're out of toilet paper.
So you pull your pants back up, zip, button, buckle, grab for your keys, drop them, curse at God for doing this to you, bend down and pick up your keys (imagining that some of your shitty ass just scraped a thick crayonny brown line on the inside of your underwear), open the door, run down the stairs, realize halfway down that you forgot your wallet, run back up, laying more curses on the universe and its evil creator, grab your wallet, hesitate whether you should bother taking your cellphone with you, decide to take it, slam the door behind you, turn to hurriedly lock the door, drop the keys again, curse some more (imagining that crayonny brown line on your underwear is now a thick creamy smudge), then finally run down the stairs and straight into the first mini-mart around the corner.
In terms of embarrassment, buying toilet paper is on a par with buying condoms. One reason is because the purchase of those products immediately gives the unmistakable impression to other people that you'll be engaging in a very specific bodily function that will result in a particularly noisome discharge very soon. This impression is further exacerbated by the fact that you're buying ONLY that particular product, since toilet paper and condoms are only ever emergency purchases. In fact, buying toilet paper is even more annoying because at least with buying condoms it's usually only an immediate embarrassment shared with the cashier you're asking it from and one or two people standing behind you in line, all of whom you assume are at that moment thinking "SOOO, LOOKING FORWARD TO A NICE BIG FAT NIGHT OF FUCKING, HUH?!". Then you just stick the box of rubbers in your pocket and you're home free. In fact it’s not even that bad, because at least you’re about to have sex, which people can admire.
But the problem with buying toilet paper is that it means you’re not about to be a sex stud but a crouching moaning mess pushing out a big disgusting pile of shit all by yourself in a smelly toilet. Furthermore, the toilet paper you need is sold in huge big fat fluffy conspicuous packages filled with the stuff, rolls and rolls of it, as if you were getting ready to clean up an enormous industrial spill. First you're embarrassed to be seen comparing prices and checking quality of the paper, giving the impression that what’s going through your mind at that moment is "HM, WHICH OF THESE WOULD I LIKE TO SMEAR MY SHIT ALL OVER? DEAR ME, I JUST CAN'T PICK!" So you naturally end up just quickly grabbing the first brand you see (which always turns out to be the cheap one with zero point minus zero percent absorption that tears just as you're wiping your ass causing your middle and ring fingers to pop through and plunge into your anus a split second before goose bumps sprout all over the back of your neck).
Now you have to take this big fat fluffy package and walk all the way over to the cashier with it tucked under your arm as you queue among a bunch of other shoppers. You think maybe you should buy some other stuff so it doesn't just look like you're dying to take a shit, but then when you grab a bar of chocolate and some 3-in-1 coffee packets, you realize that your big package of toilet paper looks even more enormous in comparison to your other tiny insignificant acquisitions. One hand: dainty little packet of coffee, other hand: MOUNTAINS OF TOILET PAPER TO WIPE SHIT WITH FOR WEEKS. So you just put the coffee and chocolate back and carry your cross of soft padded fluffy rolls of shame straight to the cash register.
Once the toilet paper has been purchased, now you can look forward to having trouble fitting the enormous package of toilet paper into a plastic shopping bag which is almost big enough but not quite. So you actually have to ask the cashier to help you fit it in, in the mistaken belief that the plastic bag will somehow hide the fact that you went out with the sole purpose of buying toilet paper which you're now dying to take home so you can take a big enormous dump already. The cashier asks if you'd like a bigger bag, which you interpret to mean "DO YOU NEED TO TAKE AN EVEN BIGGER SHIT THAN I'M IMAGINING?" so you hastily decline and just try to get out of there as fast as you can. The cashier holds the bag, you try to fit the package in, it doesn't work, one of the corners doesn't make it, so you stretch the bag out too far and it rips. The people behind you are now watching you wrestle with your big package of shame thinking "SOOO, CAN'T WAIT TO GET BACK HOME AND DROP A BIG FAT SMELLY PILE OF CRAP IN YOUR TOILET, HUH?!" You decide to just carry it in the ripped bag anyway, just so you can get out of there.
You run through the street. Mocking eyes follow your every step. The package of toilet paper – now seemingly even bigger than you are and possibly with a personality of its own that might just be laughing at you – falls out of the ripped bag in the middle of the street. Somebody tries to help you "EXCUSE ME SIR YOU JUST DROPPED YOUR ENORMOUS PACKAGE OF TOILET PAPER, YOU MIGHT NEED IT CONSIDERING IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'RE DYING TO GET HOME TO DROP A BIG FAT TURD!" You snatch at it, mumble a panicky thank you, throw the ripped bag away, tuck the naked package of toilet paper under your arm and take your precious rolls back home, up the stairs, back to your flat, like a fecaphiliac Quasimodo.
You're finally back in your bathroom. You throw your pants down, collapse on the toilet, realize the toilet seat’s up and that you just sat on your own urine-smeared porcelain bowl, jump up, pull the toilet seat down, jump back on, and… discover you don't need to take a shit anymore.
Moral of the story? God is a fucking asshole.