Blunt Wit

No I am not asking, faux gansta, what kind of car your drive or how you view the world at large. My question is more specific to your gender. How do you put the roll of toilet paper on the roller-thingy?
Do you put it on over …

Or under …

Apparently 98% of men ‘roll under’ or put the TP on such that you draw it out from underneath whereas 97% of women ‘roll over’ or put it on such that you yank it up and over the top.
So why do I bring up this weird bathroom detail?

Well in writing a story, an author builds up the characters by showing you, the reader, a string of seemingly inconsequential details that when taken together paint a portrait. Each action is like a brushstroke to a painting; every choice a character makes brings a scene on the canvas to life.

So I started to search for other telltale signs of gender and character and my highly empirical inquiry lead to the following discoveries
1. While in the laundry room the vast majority of males wash in only cold water, whereas the females will adjust the water temperature based on their mood.
2. In the kitchen most girls will follow the recipe as written, while most boys will just ‘wing it’.
3. In the bedroom the majority of women struggle unclasping their bra, whereas countless scientific studies have shown that men will get that same bra off in a fraction of the time.
4. And in the Den/TV room, men click on the remote ten times more than women.

So sometime I wonder if art really imitates life or if life itself follows from art. Who sees reality more clearly, those of who live life or those who interpret it through words, pictures or music?

So how do you roll (your toilet paper)?

So tell me, what is it about the human species that drives us to pursue extreme experiences? Why do we often invite pain and suffering against our better judgment?
So the other night under an orangy sunset and the warm intimations of summer I drove the whole family down to Baskin Robins for their 31 cent scoop night. Out front, a gaggle of firemen stood eating their ice cream.
“Where’s the fire?” I asked good-naturedly.
The Captain, or a least the self appointed leader of the flock, seemed surprised and deadpanned, “There’s no fire here.” I smiled to lighten the mood. He came round and responded, “We’re just protectin’ the place.” We all laughed. Although, my guess is he won’t be opening any comedy clubs soon.
The next day I wandered into my newest, favoritest eatery, Firehouse Subs. Apparently started by a couple of firemen, the place had old axes and oxygen tanks hanging on the wall, which I guess would come in handy if it ever caught fire.
Also on the wall to the right hung a plaque of small individual pictures of all the town’s firemen, including the crew from the night before. All over the room fire engine red chairs sat nestled up to Dalmatian spotted table tops. I hadn’t come here for the subs, although I will admit they taste good. I had come for the sauces. (cue ominous music.)
Like a dangerous police line-up, there were (and I counted them precisely) fifty bottles of various chili laden hot sauces on the counter behind which the faux firemen prepared my sub. Each bottle kindly wore a pasted-on white tag with a hand-written number denoting their relative heat index.
To the wimpy left stood “Melinda’s Habanero Pepper Sauce” at a measly 3. Next to that, also a 3, stood “Bee Sting Honey ‘n Habenero”. After several more came my personal favorite, “Georgia Peach and Vidalia Onion Hot Sauce” at a respectable 5. After several more stood “Contempt of Court” at 6 followed by “Elvis I’m all Shook Up” with the King himself on the bottle’s label at a 7. Now at the far right stood “Pain 100%” at 10 with just two bottles to the right of it. So I grabbed those two bottles and my favorite Vidalia Peachy and sat down at one of the 1001 tables. After my sub arrived, I embarked on my adventure.
I slathered my sandwich with the Peachy sauce. Then, to add a little umph, I sprinkled some “Spontaneous Combustion” (a simple 10) on to it. The back of the bottle read “For the pyromaniac who says nothing is too hot for me.” Well, one bite and I cried (from happiness.) It felt as if someone had used my tongue like a strop to sharpen one of those old fashion razors. Within seconds I had lost all sense of taste. I might as well have been eating rocks and hay for all I knew. After three cups of iced tea, my mouth simmered down enough for me to open the very bottle that had been mocking me every time I had ever stepped into this infernal shop – “Dave’s Ultimate Incendiary” at a whopping 10+++ (this link is hilarious). Determined to lick it, I poured some on the second half of my sub and proceed to chomp down.
Sweat beaded instantly on my forehead. My mouth practically exploded in scorching pain. I puffed mushroom clouds. Who says you need fissle material for a nuclear reaction. I downed 5 cups of tea and still could not cool down the meltdown in my mouth. I rushed to the bathroom mirror to check if my tongue were still attached. I didn’t recognize it. Swollen, it looked like a red sea cucumber.
I then glanced at the label to find the following warning: Use this product one drop at a time. Keep away from eyes, pets and children. Not for use by people with respiratory problems.
So as I write this my tongue still hurts and I think I might have lit upon an answer for the questions I set out at the beginning of this odyssey.
I seek out extreme experiences to prove to myself that I’m alive. I torment myself because I alone have earned that privilege. I hunger for the full range of human experience because in a flash it’ll be gone. I’ll be gone. Possibly cremated into happy ashes. That, in essence, will be my ultimate incendiary.