Toilet Paper Does Not Grow In The Bathroom

Unless You Have Puppy Dog Eyes

Shortly after my son, Scott, started living on his own, I knew my work was done. I knew it when he spoke the ten little magic words,”Toilet paper doesn’t just grow in the bathroom, you know.” These ten magic words were uttered after his mother asked him why he was using a generic brand of toilet paper instead of the name brand to which his derriere had become accustomed when I was buying the stuff.

When he lived at home, I tried, unsuccessfully, to make him fiscally responsible. Scott was always a generous person. He would give my money to anyone. I even gave him seminars on monetary responsibility, an activity which was destined to fail. I had only logic on my side while he had an ultimate weapon; he had two sad puppy dog eyes and his mom on his side.

Whenever I thought I was making progress with him, he would roll those sad eyes in his mother’s direction and money would flow his way. Seeing how well this worked for Scott, I tried it once myself. If you can’t beat them, join them. I needed a new set of golf clubs. This was a need and not a want because a new set of clubs would surely lower my golf score. I saw how well Scott’s technique worked for him, so I tried it myself. When I rolled my sad eye look at his mom, she made an appointment for me with an optometrist.

Once, I tried to outsmart him by giving him money to buy his own clothes. Each month I gave him a sum of money with which to buy clothes. Bear in mind, Scott had never spent a dime of his own money on clothing. He knew there was a law somewhere which said I had to feed and clothe him. Month after month, he spent the money on fun and never on clothes. I was confident the day would come when his underwear would get so ragged, the boy would be embarrassed enough to buy some new drawers. That day finally arrived and I was confident he would do the responsible thing. Instead, he rolled his sad puppy dog eyes and his mother bought him a new wardrobe.

My work is done now since he is out on his own. He asks his mom for chicken recipes and reminds her he only buys legs and thighs. My work is done now; he asks for work clothes for Christmas. He shops at the marts, K and Wal. My work is finally done.

Shortly after my work on Scott was complete, my daughter, Rachael, walked into the room, rolled her big beautiful eyes and declared how nice it would be if I gave her twenty dollars to go to the mall.

Vacation was over; it was time to go back to work.

Randy Russ
http://www.randyruss.com/