Small Humiliations: Part VIII / by Courtney Mehlhaff

When he was in college, a friend of mine once found himself in urgent need of a bathroom. He rushed to the nearest men's room, which he was delighted to find empty. Once in a stall, chaos ensued, but he naturally felt better. It wasn't until he reached for toilet paper that he truly felt sick.

Empty. Horror of horrors, considering the explosive episode that had just occurred. There was no one to ask for assistance, and to make matters worse, he couldn't do a quick, pants-less shuffle to another stall without exposing his naked rear to the open doorway and countless potential passersby. Plus, he didn't have time to simply air-dry. In his despair, he put his head in his hands.

And that's when he saw it. His checkbook (remember when people wrote checks?) hanging out of the back pocket of his jeans. In a flash of inspiration, he did what any man with limited options would: tore out his carbon checks and proceeded to wipe his ass with them.

Talk about flushing your money down the toilet.