There I was in the supermarket, comparing brands of silver polish with my wife. Uh-oh, old fart attack coming! Ah-oo-ga! Ah-oo-ga! And next, to the paper products aisle, for 24 rolls of toilet paper. Yeah, that's right, 24 rolls of toilet paper. With a carrying handle, 'cause there's 24 rolls of toilet paper in the package. There's only 3 toilets in the house, and - popular as druid labs may be among the upper-crustian travelers - we don't get that many visitors. I swear the cat is carrying them off, one roll at a time. Late at night she meets the mice in a dimly lit garage and swaps rolls for catnip. Drug habits are so hard. Finally, a bag of walnuts. Because, you know, like, you never know, do you? Chit-chat in the checkout line with the clerk, and, as we're walking away, I use the carrying handle to sling the 24 rolls of toilet paper over my shoulder. Like flipping a cloak with that practised Errol Flynn move, you dig? Cool. Way Cool. Iceburg and Martini Cool. Except the carrying handle, which, not designed for middle-aged attempts at youth recovery, separates from the package, dropping the 24 rolls of toilet paper. And only through the intervention of the God Who Prevents Bozo Moves does the package not split wide open. You can't be cool when you're carrying 24 rolls of toilet paper.