U.S.S. TP

A bedraggled, desperate group of survivors scanned the troubled horizon for a sign of salvation. The seas were dark and foreboding and there was no sign of the ship that would bring the afflicted the relief that they so desperately need. The last light died out on the horizon and they faced another hopeless night with no relief. It appeared they must continue to steel their insides and wait.

The world was so full of hope just weeks ago, before this pestilence started to sweep over the Earth. Most everyone seemed to have everything they needed, content in the knowledge that they could easily refill their cornucopia of plenty.

Then the panic set in. Hordes of terrified people rushing into marketplaces and bazaars, hunting down the supplies that would let them live comfortably. But the supplies disappeared as suddenly as a summer thunderstorm. All those comforting brand names—Scott, Charmin, Cottonelle—had vanished, like dead languages wiped from the Earth.

The people stared directly into the void and only inconvenience stared back.

Then the dread vigil began. When would a ship appear on the horizon to bring them back some standard of living, some creature comforts that would go to the heart of what it means to be human? To live and not just survive? They waited at the continent’s end for some sign.

Then, after three days or three weeks—in their delirium they could not say—went up the cry: “A sail! A sail!”

As dawn brightened, they could see the ship come into view and their hearts rejoiced. No longer would they be forced to live as animals. Even in their weakened, debased state, the survivors cheered.

After an eternity, the ship docked at the shoreline. The captain and his crew started unloading their bounty: Pallet after pallet of toilet paper. Brand names and generic. Single ply and two ply. Whites and pastels.

“We have a limited amount,” the captain told them. “So everyone is limited to four rolls per household until the next ship arrives.”

The crew began to distribute the rolls accordingly. But would these survivors, so tested over the last few days, listen? Would they stand in an orderly line and only take as much as they needed, so everyone could have some?

Reader, they would not. Frenzied with need, they rushed the ship, trampled the people in their way, and grabbed huge packs of toilet paper—some spouses even took a 12-pack each for their household of three people. After the riot died down, nearly half the crowd had to walk away with no toilet paper to speak of, while some had so much, it would last until the coronavirus died and the next pandemic began.

Because this wouldn’t be America if so many people didn’t have the attitude of “I got mine so eff you.”