anthropomorphic toilet paper

by Bill Tiepelman

Terror on the Tile Wall

Panic in Ply Town Rolland Q. Plyworth III had lived a cushy, well-rolled life up until this exact moment. He was proud of his smooth finish, triple-ply pedigree, and his strategic placement on the prime real estate that was the polished chrome dispenser in Stall Two. He'd heard horror stories from the bidet crowd—rumors about rough wipes, careless tears, and the dreaded "backdoor blizzard" incident of 2017. But Rolland? He thought he was above it all. Then he walked in. At first, Rolland didn't panic. Sure, the human was humming a weird polka tune, pants already around his ankles like a flag of defeat. But Rolland had seen plenty of cheeks come and go. This was standard issue. Nothing to worry about. Until he saw the hand. It wasn’t just dirty. It was apocalyptic. A crime scene in five fingers. Caked in the brown shame of a thousand tacos past their prime. The kind of mess you don’t wipe—you just burn it down and start a new life in Idaho. “Oh sweet Charmin’s ghost,” Rolland muttered as his arms sprung from his soft sides, reaching out to protest. “Not me! I’m embossed! I have a quilted legacy!” The hand got closer. It reached for the tail end of Rolland’s perfectly perforated sheet. His heart—if he had one—would’ve exploded like a hot burrito in a microwave. “Stop! Use the paper towels! Use your sleeve! Use... your dignity!” Rolland shrieked, trying to unspool himself off the holder like a hostage escaping bondage. Too late. A single square was torn free, gripped by the filth-riddled claws of the man who had clearly just committed war crimes in porcelain. And then—horror—Rolland was made to hold it. His tiny paper hand gripping the dirty square like a traitor handing over state secrets. His fibers trembled. His embossing began to curl with trauma. “You monster,” he whispered, his googly eyes widening. “I’m not even flushable.” But the man didn’t hear. The man never heard. They never do. They just wipe and leave. No thank you. No apology. No therapy voucher. As the hand drew the square toward the unspeakable, Rolland knew this was only the beginning of his nightmare. And if he didn’t do something drastic... he’d be next. The Great Escape and the Porcelain Underground It’s said that in moments of mortal terror, your life flashes before your eyes. For Rolland Q. Plyworth III, it was a slideshow of packaging. The proud day he left the factory. The first time he was stocked on the top shelf—front-facing, labels aligned. The time a small dog tried to chew on his outer layer and got scared off by his screaming face. Simpler times. But now? Now he was about to be complicit in the kind of fecal felony that gets you blacklisted from every guest bathroom from here to Biscayne Bay. His mind raced. He was a roll of few options. But if he could just... twist his core... leverage the spring of the holder... maybe—maybe—he could dismount. “FOR PLYDOM!” he howled, spinning like a majestic soft grenade and flinging himself off the metal spindle with all the grace of a suicidal croissant. He hit the tiled wall, bounced off the sink, and landed with a panicked flop behind the toilet brush caddy. The human stared at the empty holder. “What the—” he grunted, cheeks clenched, reaching under the sink in desperation. “WHERE’S THE BACKUP ROLL?!” Rolland peeked from behind the plunger, gasping for breath he didn’t need. “There is... no backup... you crusty-handed barbarian.” Suddenly, from the shadows of the baseboard heating vent, came a whisper. “Pssst. New guy. You alright?” Rolland turned to see a square of paper towel, folded into a vaguely humanoid shape with duct tape shoes. One corner was burnt. One side had coffee stains that looked... deliberate. “Who... who are you?” Rolland asked, still trembling. “Name’s Bev. Bev Napkin. We’ve been watching you from the vents. You’ve got guts, roll-boy. Most of your kind go limp and get flushed. But you? You’ve got fiber.” Rolland blinked. “Is this the afterlife? Is this where all the partially used napkins go?” Bev laughed, a harsh papery rasp. “Nah, sweetheart. This is the Underground. And you just joined the resistance.” Bev led him down through a vent tunnel, past tissues with eye patches, floss with battle scars, even a bar of soap that refused to speak of what it had seen in Gym Locker 9. They emerged into a hollow behind the baseboards—a sanctuary of the discarded and the defiant. A haven for the hygienically traumatized. “We call it ‘Plymoria’,” Bev explained, spreading her crumpled hands. “And we fight for justice. For dignity. For one-ply, two-ply, and moist towelette alike.” Rolland stared in awe. “But... what can I do?” Bev grinned. “You know the layout. You’ve seen the enemy. You’ve touched their hands.” He shuddered. “More like... their sins.” “Then you’re perfect for our mission,” she said. “Operation: Wipe Back.” From that day forward, Rolland trained with the Paper Platoon. He learned to roll silently across linoleum. He mastered distraction techniques (mostly involving fake poop and creaky cabinet doors). He even bonded with a grizzled loofah named Carl, who’d done two tours in the bachelor dorm showers. The next time that filthy human entered the bathroom, things were different. As he reached again—confident, unrepentant—he felt the snap of a tripwire made of floss. The thud of a plunger falling on his foot. The squirt of hand soap in the eye. He stumbled, slipped, and fell backward into the tub with a dramatic flail worthy of a daytime soap opera. “WE DON’T WIPE IN FEAR ANYMORE!” Rolland yelled, rappelling from the shower rod with a grappling hook made of hair ties and courage. “WHO SAID THAT?!” the man screamed, now face-down in a puddle of his own arrogance. Bev appeared beside Rolland, her crumpled napkin form backlit by the glowing nightlight shaped like a seashell. “Justice,” she said, flicking a Q-tip like a ninja star. And thus, the Porcelain Underground made their mark. They didn’t stop all the messes. But they did stop the worst of them. And they reminded every person entering that room that toilet paper was not just a tool—it was a soul. A sentient square with dreams. And boundaries. And Rolland? He wasn’t just a roll anymore. He was a revolutionary. A soft-spun soldier of sanitary salvation. Long live the resistance. Long live the Ply.     Bring the Bathroom Battle Home! If you laughed, gasped, or nervously checked your own toilet paper holder—why not commemorate the madness? "Terror on the Tile Wall" is now available as a series of gloriously absurd, conversation-starting products. Whether you're decorating your guest bathroom or just want to weird out your in-laws, we've got you covered (with more dignity than that guy's hand). Framed Print – Classy enough for your hallway, disturbing enough to keep the kids out of your bathroom. Metal Print – Because nothing says “modern chic” like a terrified toilet roll immortalized in aluminum. Acrylic Print – Vibrant, glossy, and deeply unsettling—perfect for contemporary bathrooms or as a housewarming gift for people you want to confuse. Shower Curtain – Give your morning routine a sense of urgency with Rolland’s face screaming at you while you lather. Make your walls weird, your shower scenes surreal, and your bathroom proudly unhinged with this one-of-a-kind image. Go on, wipe responsibly—shop hilariously.

by Bill Tiepelman

Roll for Your Life!

The Call of Doody Deep within the humid, echo-prone chamber known as “The Throne Room,” a young toilet paper roll named Rolland T. P. Wipe stood tall—metaphorically, of course. He was your standard two-ply with a heart of quilted gold. Fresh off the Costco pack, untested, unspoiled, untouched by butt. His friends used to joke that he was a bit... uptight. Always wound a little too tight around the core. But Rolland knew something the others didn't: the stories. The flushy fables. The Tales of the Torn. He’d heard them whispered late at night under the sink—legends of noble rolls who went in whole, but came out shredded. Of brave souls who gave it all for the cheeks of humanity, only to be flushed down into the watery underworld with a final soggy farewell. Some said there were survivors. Most said that was crap. Literal crap. Rolland wasn’t ready for that life. He had dreams. Aspirations. He wanted to travel, see the world beyond the tile. Maybe get into bidet activism, or start a line of luxury tissue for the sensitive-bottomed elite. But fate had other plans. And by “fate,” we mean Chad. Now, Chad wasn’t evil—just inconsiderate, lactose-intolerant, and tragically unaware of fiber's importance in the diet. A man with the diet of a teenager and the bowel control of a dying sloth. When he entered the bathroom that fateful Sunday morning, it wasn’t a visit—it was an invasion. The door creaked open. The air grew tense. The tile shivered beneath his Crocs. Chad approached the porcelain throne like a man possessed—his bare cheeks already making a thunderous clap of doom as he sat, unaware that Rolland was the Chosen One today. Rolland’s tube tightened. His perforations trembled. He saw the gleam in Chad’s eye as the man reached toward him, mid-grunt, mumbling something about “the spicy wings from last night.” “No… no, not me... not like this!” Rolland gasped (in his mind, because paper can't speak—but let’s pretend it can for emotional impact). Then, with one final gasp, Rolland leapt. His little limbs sprouted from his cardboard core, and he sprinted across the tiles like a roll on a mission. Behind him, Chad let out a guttural moan of inconvenience. “Goddammit! Where the hell do the good rolls keep going?!” But Rolland didn’t look back. Heroes never look back. Especially not when a sweaty human ass is involved. Skidmarks and Sacrifice Rolland’s cardboard core pounded like a tribal drum as he sprinted across the bathroom tiles, every square inch of his quilted frame vibrating with adrenaline. He dodged a rogue hairball, leapt over a stray toenail clipping, and skidded past a suspicious puddle that smelled vaguely of Mountain Dew and regret. “Must escape… must not be wiped…” he panted, arms flailing with every bounce. The toilet behind him groaned like a haunted soul. Chad, still perched like a sweaty demon atop his porcelain perch, let out a sigh so deep it altered the humidity levels in the room. “Where’s the damn backup roll?!” he barked, hunched and squinting at the empty chrome holder. His hand hovered near the sink, groping blindly for salvation. Rolland’s time was running out. He dashed toward the baseboard. Maybe he could wedge himself under the vanity, fake his own smearing—I mean, death. Lay low for a few months, rebrand himself as a paper towel. Hell, even napkins got more respect than this! But just as he was about to duck under the cabinet, he heard it. That unholy sound. The distinct, unmistakable crinkle of an emergency roll being unwrapped. “No...” he gasped, slowing in horror. Chad had found it: Generic 1-ply store-brand tissue. The kind that disintegrated on contact with anything moist. The kind that made grown men cry and rear ends bleed. A disgrace to the wiping arts. “Guess you’ll have to do,” Chad muttered, yanking it from its cellophane prison like a barbarian choosing a sacrificial virgin. Rolland turned around. Something shifted inside him—metaphorically, because he had no organs. But this was a roll with principles. “No one deserves that fate… not even Chad’s cheeks,” he whispered. And so, against every instinct, against every fiber of his being—he turned back. He ran. Toward the seat. Toward destiny. Toward doom. “Chad! Use me!” he screamed (again, just pretend he can talk, alright?). “I’m ultra-soft, aloe-infused, and 2-ply strong! Don’t do this to yourself!” Chad blinked. “Huh?” It didn’t matter. By the time Chad reached for the cheap stuff, Rolland was there—arms outstretched, noble, tragic, and softly quilted. The moment was tender. Brief. Absurdly damp. But Rolland knew: he had fulfilled his purpose, spared a man’s butt, and shown that even a humble roll could become a legend. As he was torn sheet by sheet, he looked back at the now-empty holder, smiled (somehow), and whispered: “Long live the roll.” And with a final flush… he was gone.     Epilogue: The Legend of the Last Wipe In the misty underworld of septic tanks and sewer lines, where only the most flushed souls dare roam, a whisper echoes through the grime: “Rolland lived.” They say he floats now, somewhere in the dark rivers beneath the porcelain realm, tattered but proud. Revered among used tampons, rogue goldfish, and half-dissolved Clorox wipes as “The Roll Who Chose.” He is spoken of with awe in janitorial break rooms, praised in plumber poetry slams, and even immortalized on the forbidden bathroom wall graffiti: “ROLLAND WAS HERE. HE SAVED MY REAR.” As for Chad, the experience changed him. He began buying premium tissue. Triple-ply. Lavender-scented. He even installed a bidet with LED lighting and Wi-Fi. Chad, at long last, learned to respect the sacred rite of the wipe. And every now and then, in the quiet hours of a 2 a.m. post-Taco Bell emergency, he swears he hears a faint voice rising from the bowl: “One sheet at a time, Chad… one sheet at a time…” And just like that, our brave little bathroom warrior became more than tissue. He became legend.     Can’t get enough of Rolland’s noble quest? Immortalize the legend in your own home with our hilariously heroic “Roll for Your Life” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you're decorating your bathroom with a shower curtain that screams ‘run!’, drying your cheeks with a luxuriously soft bath towel, or hanging a framed print or a sleek acrylic piece that says “I take bathroom art seriously,” there’s a perfect piece for every fan of lowbrow brilliance. Go ahead—wipe responsibly, laugh loudly, and decorate boldly.