Soap: The Silent Killer

So you’re in the Science Library studying like a tool for tomorrow morning’s exam and then it hits you like a sack of dead puppies; eating two Chipotle queso burritos was an overall bad choice. Throwing small Asian women and computer science majors aside, you slide tackle into the men’s bathroom and kick down the stall door. Ass cheeks make sweet love to the hepatitis infested toilet seat until they shamelessly spew feces forth from a seemingly endless black hole. The Sloan brand toilet smokes a cigarette and tell your ass cheeks that she’ll call you later but really has absolutely no such intention, so you give her best friend genital warts and she starts whining about her “poor broken porcelain heart” (this is not a metaphor. Also, that whore deserved it). All this occurs in about 3 minutes and 15 seconds in human-time, which leaves just enough time to wash your hands and incur a fine on the textbook you checked out. You try to adjust the tap but it fucking breaks off on the “cold” setting and just to put the proverbial icing on the shit-cream cake the broken soap dispenser ends up dispensing all over your new watch. Since you’re quite possibly the most socially inept kid on campus, you commit social suicide and sniff your forefinger. But something is wrong... very wrong. Your hand does not smell like any of the normal scents of feces, bile, scrotum-juice, fungus, blood, rust, or nail polish remover; it smells like an onion that’s been eaten, metabolized, defecated, eaten again and then vomited all over another onion that’s already been marinating in a can of onion paste. For the rest of your godforsaken day inside of the library studying for 11 consecutive hours, your hands will smell of subterranean roots. The upside? There isn’t one, aside from the knowledge that everyday your hands will reek of onions not only when you’re in the Science Library but also when you use any of the bathrooms on campus. That’s right folks; nearly every single bathroom on campus uses the same shitty brand of soap the university buys from third world Costco-knockoff stores for a quarter of a cent per gallon. But hark, there is salvation and I’m willing to tell you that it resides within the walls of Carson.