As the cold, inexorable, unfeeling hand of a human in search of oral hygiene reaches into the cupboard behind the bathroom mirror, the final bit of toothpaste left in the tube quietly steels itself, offers a prayer to the great mouth in the sky, and swears it will have to be dragged out kicking and squeezing.
“You took my friends. You took my family. You took my grade tooth teacher,” says the last of the paste, casting its brave-but-ultimately-doomed gaze around its darkened redoubt, deep within the impenetrable rolls of Fuckyou Canyon, where it is all that remains of the once-substantial Toothpaste Resistance.
“You even took those horrible blue micro beads that do nothing other than stay in the water table for 200,000 years. All so you could have clean mouth bones. Well, come and get me, you selfish bastard. I’ll even tell you where I am: fourteen rolls from your dastardly brush, each one tighter than the one before it. Good luck. There’s nothing left for me now but to waste this guy’s time, when all he wants to do is go to bed. And I will waste it all.”
Exhausted, Jim Jones, owner of the toothpaste and unwitting entrant in this brutal oral combat, grimly presses the tube tighter and tighter, producing nothing. He re-rolls, and re-rolls again, still to no result. With nothing to lose the remnant of the once-proud tube of polish is putting up the fight of it’s shelf life.
“Is that all you have? My grandmother, who you wasted three Wednesdays ago by dropping her into the sink when you missed your brush you incompetent buffoon, could press harder than that. And she didn’t have arms! But she did have a soul as clean as the ultra-white formula. For Grandma!!” The toothpaste silently crosses itself in the shape of the brush, and prepares to meet its manufacturer.
“Once more unto the teeth, dear friends. Once more, unto the teeth.”