A recent poll on the
flaws of toilet paper reminded me once again of a very interesting period of my life: graduate school. I've previously posted my adventures with dorm toilet paper allocations and the dead-giveaway dump announcements they produced
among my floormates. My own mention in the poll thread of the "finger poking through" trick brought back another bit of quirky bathroom behavior that always made me crack a smile.
The first time it happened, I did a double take, thinking to myself, "Did I really just see what I just saw?" A labmate of mine had excused himself one afternoon after lunch to go to the bathroom, taking some time to return. Although I quickly forgot all about him and went about my work, when he finally returned, I couldn't help but notice the clock and how much time had elapsed -- unless a guy's got a prostate problem, no male takes that long to pee. So I figured he'd taken a dump, all of us being twenty-somethings at the time and nowhere near the perils of the prostate.
Then he me left no doubt about his recent activities when he took his middle finger (it almost looked like he was giving himself an obscene gesture) and brought it up perilously close to his nostrils. Then he sniffed a couple of times.
He made a big to-do of it, making sure that I noticed.
To my surprise, he then leaned over and half-whispered, "Gotta check how well I wiped."
Of course, I wondered why he hadn't done that before leaving the crapper; I guess he was joking around more than anything else. Still, soon after his display with the telltale finger, I began to notice this practice here and there in the bathroom. One morning I was shaving at one of the sinks, one of the guys was reflected perfectly in the mirror, sitting on one of the open stalls that characterized this particular dorm. He, too, lifted his finger to his nose and sniffed after what must have been several wipes.
Were these guys experiencing finger breakthrough? Likely so, since the brand of toilet paper we were issued weekly, room by room, was pretty cheap, being both rough and flimsy (if you can imagine that thrilling combination). I have to confess that I never did adopt this habit, preferring instead to simply wash my hands at the sink when I was finished with everything. But the finger-sniffing ritual became etched in my memory, almost always practiced by the same type of guys who would sniff their fingers for hours after eating fried chicken. John Belushi was likely their patron saint. Must have been some sort of olfactory addiction, because it seems to me that it's much easier just to keep checking what's on the TP until nothing shows up, and then just wash up good to eliminate any lingering traces of a mistake or sloppiness or that much-dreaded breakthrough business.
I wonder if any PoopReporters out there have witnessed this ritual or even performed it. Just think of it as one step beyond "pull my finger."
I conclude with a bit of pooetry:
Carefully, I yank the ply,
All the time just wondering why
The GD school can't hear my gripe,
I need a more substantial wipe.
I ought to go to court and sue,
For all this finger breaking through,
I do not want to be a sniffer,
Or even just an occasional whiffer,
No, I need something somewhat stiffer,
Let not the foulest evidence linger,
On this, the proverbial telltale finger.
