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Attack of the paper towels

     I heard an amazing thing tonight that reminded me of another amazing thing, and that, for some strange reason, reminded me of the paper towel attack in the San Joaquin Valley.

     I was driving home this evening, minding my business—and the black and white in front of me—while some guy on the radio went on and on about the Mediterranean Diet and what you might be eating for dinner if you were a follower of this particular diet. I heard something about "drenched in olive oil," and tuned out—but he kept on talking. I was about to change the station when I heard something so amazing that my ears perked up and my eyebrows raised six inches. The guy said—honest to gosh, this is what he said—"It's recently been proven that those who live by the Mediterranean Diet reduce their chances of dying by sixty-four percent."

     Hey, I'll take 64% any day. I've never been too much into dying. I'm seriously considering adopting that Mediterranean Diet.

For some reason, this reminded me of an ad I saw in the America West magazine last month. When I saw it I blinked and read it again—three times. The ad said if you use their product, "You'll get pregnant AND have a Baby… or you'll get your money back. 100%. Guaranteed!"

     My first thought was of all the men I know—not pregnant—and then I thought of old people—not having babies—and I thought this was simply amazing. Who ever thought of guaranteeing babies? Or pregnancy?

     While pondering what this world is coming to, I remembered the attack of the paper towels. A bit more mundane than life without dying or guaranteed money-back babies, but nevertheless, a new element of life in the city. Or suburbs. Or wherever you happen to be living these days.

     The attack happened in an ordinary-looking washroom in a restaurant in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley. I had recently left the stall with the auto-flush that never auto-flushes until you're halfway out the door. I was heading toward a sink close to the wall when I noticed that the faucets didn't have any handles. This was old hat to me—lots of faucets have no handles. You just stand there and wave your hands delicately back and forth under the faucet so it can see you and nothing happens, so you wave them a bit more definitely and nothing happens, so you wave them frantically and still nothing happens, so you turn around to walk out and that's when the water gushes out of the faucet. It always stops before you get your hands back under it.

     I was deep in thought, anticipating this little exercise and how to approach it, when a paper towel slammed into my left cheek—face cheek, that is. In case you were thinking otherwise. I was the only one in the washroom—far as I could tell. No one throwing paper towels around. I turned toward where the paper towel had come from and saw a silver paper towel dispenser, firmly attached to the wall.

     I stepped up to the—wham! Another paper towel attacked. I stood still as a flagpole and turned my head very slowly toward the dispenser. It looked back at me. Ohmigosh! The paper towel dispensers? I put my hand in front of the dispenser and sure enough—a towel flew out across the room. I did this about five times before I got bored and reached for the sink with the automatic faucets.

     Amazing. Who thinks all this stuff up? I'm now envisioning years and years of dodging paper towels, never dying, and having babies whenever I—forget it. Think I'll skip that last part.

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