bathroom humor

by Bill Tiepelman

The Shampoo Strikes Back

The steam had barely risen when the trouble started. Barry, a mild-mannered bar of soap with sensitive skin and a lifelong fear of mildew, had just clocked in for his usual spot on the shower ledge. It was a quiet life—rinse, lather, repeat. He even had a decent relationship with Loofah Linda, though she had a scratchy personality. But nothing in Barry’s soft-sud existence could’ve prepared him for that bottle. He came in hot—like, really hot. The shampoo bottle. All slick pecs and deranged grin. His label had long since peeled off, his ingredients were unregulated, and he foamed at the nozzle. Literally. His name? Max. Max Volume. And he didn’t come to clean—he came to dominate. "What’s the matter, soap boy?" Max growled, flexing a nozzle that had seen things. "You look... dry." Barry slid a cautious inch toward the drain. "I-I’m 99% natural! No parabens! We can coexist, man!" Max cackled. "Coexist? Barry, your time is up. Nobody uses bar soap anymore unless they’re staying at a 2-star motel or trying to be quirky on TikTok. You’re done. I’m the future. I’m two-in-one, baby." Before Barry could even stammer a response, Max pounced, his cap popping open like a frat bro ready to ruin brunch. Suds flew. Barry screamed. The floor got... moist. Somewhere in the chaos, the loofah cheered. The razor fainted. And Barry? Barry was about to go where no soap had gone before—the dark side of the shampoo caddy. Barry hit the plastic with a wet thud. The caddy smelled like expired eucalyptus and broken dreams. Above him, Max loomed like a sudsy titan, foam dripping down his label like drool from a shampoo-soaked Cerberus. "You know what they say, Barry," Max hissed, flexing his overly-defined bottle neck. "Condition or be conditioned." Barry scrambled backward, his lather slicking the soap shelf in a panic. "Please! I’ve got a family—three travel-sized cousins under the sink and a half-melted aunt in the guest bathroom!" "They’ll melt too, Barry. Everyone does," Max sneered. "Except me. I’ve got preservatives. I never go bad." Just then, the shower curtain rustled. A shadow loomed. The Human was back. Max’s wild eyes flicked to the curtain, then back to Barry. Time was short. The shampoo bottle grabbed the terrified soap and hoisted him above his cap like a trophy. "One last rinse, you slippery little—" SLAP! Max dropped Barry with a squeal. Out of nowhere, a pink blur struck him mid-label. He spun, disoriented, a squirt of foam bursting from his lid. Standing at the ready, trembling and vibrating with scrubby rage, was Loofah Linda. And she looked pissed. "Put the soap down, Max," she growled, her netted loops quivering with fury. "You leave him alone or I’ll exfoliate your ass into next week." Max tried to regain composure, but his foam fizzled. "You wouldn't dare. I’ve got tea tree oil." "I’ve got volcanic ash, you slippery bastard." Barry blinked from the corner, still soaked and trembling. Max snarled and made one last dash—but slipped on a slick spot of coconut oil and faceplanted into the drain guard with a satisfying squelch. The bathroom fell silent except for the slow drip of the faucet and the gentle hum of Linda’s victory scrub. Barry crawled back to the ledge, shaken, slippery, and slightly aroused. Linda offered a loop. He took it. "You saved me," he whispered, eyes wide. "Why?" She gave a coy wiggle. "Let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for hard bars." From that day on, Barry lathered with pride. Max? Relegated to the back of the tub, wedged upside down behind the body wash and half-empty bubble bath. As for Linda and Barry? Every rinse was a little steamier—and Max learned the hard way that you never mess with old-school clean. Moral of the story: Don’t pick a fight in the shower. Someone always gets rinsed.     Months passed. The bathroom ecosystem slowly returned to a soggy peace. Max Volume, now wedged behind a seldom-used foot scrubber and a crusty bottle of self-tanning mousse, had lost his shine. His pump squeaked. His bravado fizzled. Every once in a while, he’d mutter about “market dominance” and “shampoo supremacy,” but no one listened—except a lonely bath bomb who exploded on contact with air and didn’t believe in capitalism. Barry, meanwhile, found purpose in the simple joys: the warm hum of hot water, the ticklish spray from the showerhead, and Linda’s rough-around-the-edges affection. Together, they became the bathroom's power couple. She exfoliated. He moisturized. They took pride in the ritual, in the intimacy of daily routine. No pump. No squeeze. Just touch, texture, and time. Even the razor—who’d gone full nihilist after a bad date with an electric trimmer—started perking up again. The duck-shaped sponge returned from exile. The human bought a shelf insert. Things were, for once, stable. Soapy. Harmonious. And somewhere, deep behind the loofahs, a barely audible whisper echoed through the steam: “Three-in-one is coming.” But Barry didn’t worry. He was slicker than ever. And this time… he had backup.     Love Barry and Linda’s slippery saga? Bring the chaos, comedy, and sudsy suspense of “The Shampoo Strikes Back” into your own bathroom with our hilariously bold shower curtain—guaranteed to spark conversation and possibly fear in your shampoo bottle. Want to towel off the trauma? Grab the matching bath towel, equal parts soft and scandalous. Prefer to keep your soapscapades dry? Showcase the drama with a stunning framed print or an eye-catching acrylic print for the wall. It's weird. It's wild. It's wash-day warfare—packaged for your décor, your laughs, and your oddly specific bathroom vibes.

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.

by Bill Tiepelman

Shave Me Softly (with Terror)

The Prickle and the Peril There are few things in life as universally despised as the ankle nick. That one millimeter of skin you forget about until it’s bleeding like you stepped on a landmine. And Marvin? Marvin knew that pain all too well. Marvin was an average guy. Thirty-something. Single. Devoted to his three cats and a frighteningly specific grooming routine. You’d think he was prepping for a competitive foot modeling gig—or some kind of cult ritual involving satin robes and very smooth heels. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he’d break out his grooming kit, light a sandalwood candle, and put on a playlist called “Sensual Blades.” But this Sunday was different. As Marvin sat down on the bathroom floor, towel under his butt and warm water steaming from the sink, he reached into his grooming drawer and pulled out a razor he didn’t recognize. It was sleek, polished...and vibrating. Not in a good way. In a kind of low, menacing hum that said, “I have secrets.” “Huh,” Marvin muttered. “You new here?” He didn’t remember buying it. He certainly didn’t remember one with a handle shaped like a demon's femur and a blade that shimmered like moonlight off a prison shank. But, like any self-respecting suburban man with impulse control issues and zero survival instincts, he shrugged and gave it a go. That’s when the razor moved. “OW, SHITBALLS!” Marvin yelped, kicking backward. The razor wasn’t in his hand anymore. No, it was standing. On two gnarly, gremlin-like feet. Its eyes were wild, its mouth stretched into a grin that said, “You’re not going to enjoy this, but I sure as hell am.” “Back away from the Achilles tendon, buddy!” Marvin barked, waving a loofah like a weapon. But the creature was undeterred. It crouched low, licking its non-existent lips, hands outstretched like it was about to tickle a foot fetish forum into chaos. Its blade head glinted under the bathroom light as it whispered in a raspy voice: “It’s time... for a close shave.” Marvin screamed—not like a movie scream, but like a dying seagull being tickled inappropriately. He scurried back on his hands and heels, knocking over a bottle of conditioner and accidentally spraying himself in the eye with aftershave. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” he cried. The blade-creature paused. It tilted its head—if you could call a razor head a head—and answered with manic glee, “Smooth. Supple. SEXY. Heels.” Marvin blinked through the sting of aftershave and stared at the tiny, nightmarish barber. “Dude. That is the weirdest kink I’ve ever heard of—and I once dated a girl who moaned during tax season.” The creature lunged. Marvin rolled left, slammed his elbow into the toilet, and launched a towel at the thing. “I shave my legs for ME, not for your sick little exfoliation fantasy!” he shouted. But deep down, Marvin knew he was trapped. This wasn’t just a weird razor. This was something worse. Something ancient. Something… sentient. And Marvin’s ankle was the chosen one. Just as the gremlin got one scaly claw on his heel and let out an orgasmic, "Ooooooh yeaaaah," Marvin reached for the only thing that could save him: his electric foot file. It buzzed to life like a chainsaw in a horror movie. The showdown had begun. Smooth Criminal The buzzing of Marvin’s electric foot file echoed like a tiny chainsaw of justice. The blade-gremlin hissed, his blade-face twitching. “You dare bring a pedicure tool into my sanctuary?” Marvin stood, one foot on the bathmat, the other dripping wet and still half-covered in shaving foam. His pupils were dilated. His towel was gone. His dignity, possibly forever lost. But dammit, he was done running. “This is MY bathroom,” he growled. “My kingdom. And nobody—nobody—manscapes me without consent!” The blade-creature lunged again, arms wide, going for the Achilles with a mad gleam in his eyes and a very unsettling erection-shaped blade-handle wobbling between its legs. Marvin dodged like a hero in an ’80s action flick—if the hero had bad balance and slipped on a bottle of lavender body wash. He landed on his side with a wheeze, but managed to smack the foot file right into the gremlin’s armpit. WHIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRR! The gremlin shrieked like a demonic tea kettle. “NOOOO! NOT THE CALLUS EXFOLIATOR OF DEATH!” Marvin grinned through the pain. “Yeah, I read your reviews on Amazon. Weak to friction and overconfident with heels.” The foot file buzzed harder. Sparks flew. The gremlin sizzled like bacon left too long on the skillet of hell. And then—POP!—he exploded in a confetti puff of nose hair trimmings and disappointment. Silence fell. Marvin lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily, surrounded by the chaos of battle: cotton swabs, a shattered razor holder, and a single, smoldering toenail clipping. Eventually, he sat up. Looked around. Patted his leg. He was safe. “Well, that was… aggressively personal care,” he muttered. He stood up, grabbed the nearest towel—pink, fluffy, embroidered with “Live Laugh Lather”—and tied it around his waist. He gazed into the mirror, where the remnants of shaving cream streaked his jaw like war paint. “Marvin,” he told his reflection, “you just survived a grooming exorcism. You’re basically a hot wizard now.” But just as he turned to leave the bathroom, a low hiss slithered from the drain… “We will return… for the nethers…” Marvin blinked. “Nope.” He grabbed his phone, opened his favorite delivery app, and muttered, “Time to switch to waxing.”     Three weeks later, Marvin was a changed man. He’d canceled his “Smooth Moves Monthly” subscription box. He no longer trusted razors, tweezers, or any object smaller than a baguette. His cats had begun to avoid the bathroom entirely, ever since one witnessed the gremlin incident and promptly barfed in Marvin’s shoes. Marvin now wore socks to bed. Not for warmth. Not for style. For protection. “They’ll never get my heels again,” he whispered into his pillow at night. But somewhere in the depths of his plumbing, beneath the crusted shampoo gunk and dreams of shower karaoke, something stirred. Something sharp. Something smug. Deep in the drain, a single, sinister whisper echoed up into the pipes: “Exfoliate… or die.” Marvin, brushing his teeth nearby, paused. A chill ran up his still-hairless calf. He glanced at the drain. He narrowed his eyes. “Alexa,” he said, foam flying, “order holy water. And a pumice grenade.” The war on unwanted body hair wasn’t over. It had just gone underground. To be continued… in ‘Nairmare on Elbow Street’.     🛁 Shave With Style (and a Little Trauma) If Marvin’s nightmarishly awkward foot fight spoke to your soul—or just your soles—take the madness home with you. Our exclusive “Shave Me Softly” collection transforms bathroom terror into functional, fabulous art for the brave and beautifully bizarre. Shower Curtain: Make every rinse an act of defiance. Turn your morning scrub into a monster showdown. Bath Towel: Dry off like a damn hero who just defeated a grooming gremlin with nothing but sass and suds. Framed Print: Art for your walls—or as a warning to future generations: shave responsibly. Metal Print: Bold. Durable. Sharp. Just like the villain. And also your sense of humor. Groom boldly, decorate unapologetically, and remember—if you hear a whisper from the drain… maybe skip the loofah today.

by Bill Tiepelman

Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk

“It’s just toothpaste,” Gary mumbled, shaking off his hangover like a wet dog shaking fleas. He squinted at the metallic tube beside the sink—dented, bulging, and weirdly... moist? He didn’t remember buying this brand. Or ever using a brand where the packaging growled when you touched it. Hungover logic has its own flavor of confidence, so he yanked the cap. Bad move. With a wet pop and an unnatural grunt, the tube exploded into motion. Out shot a creature, half-man, half-aluminum horror with skin like expired deli meat and a grin like a dental crime scene. It landed on the counter like a greased goblin and bellowed, "TIME TO BRUSH, B*TCH!" Gary screamed in a pitch previously reserved for flan-related emergencies. The creature leapt, squeezing its own midsection and spraying a fleshy pink paste all over Gary’s Sonicare like it owed him child support. "You want clean teeth or prison gums?” the tube-demon barked, violently frothing at the mouth. “I got 37 herbs and spices of minty domination!" Gary reached for the door, but it slammed shut on its own. The room smelled of spearmint and panic. “Wha—what the hell are you?” he whimpered, dodging another squirt of what might’ve been toothpaste or demonic tapioca. The thing flexed. “I’m Tuborax. Dental Warlord of the Seventh Sink. I’ve been squeezed by sinners and saints. I’ve freshened breath before battle. I’ve been used in prison—twice—and not just for brushing.” Gary blinked. “I... I just wanted fresh breath.” Tuborax leaned in, nostrils flaring like they were trying to commit a misdemeanor. “Fresh? No, Gary. You’re about to get spiritually flossed.” Then, from beneath the sink, something began to rumble. Something worse. Something... foamy. The cabinet under the sink burst open like a guilty confession. Out oozed a sticky foam with the consistency of half-melted shaving cream and the vibe of a frat house at 3 a.m. It smelled like peppermint, fear, and unresolved trauma. Tuborax’s eyes widened with manic glee. “Ahhh... the Mouthwash Abyss awakens. Perfect timing.” Gary slipped on a puddle of what he hoped was Listerine and fell backward, barely avoiding a toothbrush with more bristles than moral compass. “I just wanted to freshen up before my date!” he cried. “Date?” Tuborax sneered. “Son, your mouth smells like a tax audit. And you think you’re gonna smooch someone without me excavating that funk swamp? No. NO. I’ve seen mold less stubborn than your molars.” From the abyss, a voice echoed: “Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuushhhh.” Then it rose. An enormous, semi-translucent figure made entirely of mouthwash loomed overhead like a gelatinous god. Inside its minty belly, half-dissolved teeth swirled like haunted Chiclets. It gurgled, “I AM LISTERLORD.” Tuborax bowed slightly. “Yo, Listerlord. Long time, no spit.” Gary sat frozen in horror. Listerlord pointed a shimmering finger at him. “This one flosses once a quarter and thinks orange Tic Tacs count as oral care.” “They do!” Gary squeaked. “They’re citrusy!” “You’re about to be citrus-sanitized, boy,” Tuborax said, grabbing Gary by the collar. “Listerlord, initiate... the Deep Cleanse Protocol.” Suddenly, music blared from nowhere—something between EDM and Gregorian chant. Tuborax leapt into the air with the agility of a greased chimp and began brushing Gary’s teeth with a vengeance not seen since 80s action movies. The toothbrush vibrated like a jackhammer on ecstasy, each bristle doing penance for its sins. “OPEN WIDE,” screamed Listerlord, pouring gallons of minty fluid down Gary’s gullet until his soul tingled. His gums screamed. His tongue saw God. Somewhere in the distance, a molar tapped out Morse code for “help.” After what felt like a full rinse cycle at the Gates of Tartarus, it stopped. Gary lay on the bathroom floor, dazed, drooling, and breathing peppermint steam. Tuborax stood over him, hands on hips, smug as hell. “Congratulations. You’re clean enough to French kiss a nun in zero gravity.” Gary blinked. “What... just happened?” “You got disciplined,” Tuborax said. “And now... I must go. Another dirty mouth calls.” He saluted Gary with the toothbrush like a saber. “Remember: brush twice daily. Floss, even when you’re hungover. And never—never—buy store brand paste. That sh*t is evil.” With that, he dove back into the tube, which sealed shut with a pop and a burp that smelled faintly of wintergreen and regret. Gary sat up, minty tears rolling down his face. “I’m never skipping a dental appointment again.” Behind him, the tube twitched.     It had been three weeks since The Incident. Gary no longer used store-brand toothpaste. Hell, he didn’t even go down that aisle. The mere crinkle of foil made his eyelid twitch. He had three electric toothbrushes now—named “Faith,” “Hope,” and “Oh God Not Again.” He flossed with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb made of plaque and bad life choices. His date? Canceled. She texted: “Your vibe is… minty trauma?” Therapists don’t believe him. Dentists whisper when he walks in. And the bathroom mirror still fogs up with strange messages during hot showers—like “SPIT AND REPENT” or “GINGIVA SEES ALL.” But Gary sleeps better now. His breath could stun a mule. His teeth? So clean they squeak when he frowns. Still, every so often… he hears a squish from the cabinet below the sink. A muffled laugh. The faint echo of a war cry: “SQUEEEEEEEEZE ME!” And he knows… somewhere in the shadowy plumbing realms between dimension and drain—Tuborax waits. Watching. Ready to lather again.     Survived the tale of Tuborax? Immortalize the madness in your own bathroom—if you dare. ⚔️ Lather in fear with the "Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk" Shower Curtain — guaranteed to make guests question their life choices. 🧼 Dry your tears (and your everything else) with the Matching Bath Towel, softer than Tuborax’s warped soul. 🖼️ Want Tuborax judging your hygiene habits from the wall? Get him in style with a Framed Print or the eye-popping Acrylic Print. Warning: side effects may include extreme freshness, spontaneous flossing, and mild existential dread.

by Bill Tiepelman

Scrub Me Silly

The Dirty Origins In a modest bathroom somewhere between “hipster chic” and “what the hell is that smell?”, a bar of soap had enough. Day in, day out, he was rubbed, scrubbed, dropped in hairier-than-average crevices, and left to marinate in the sadness of cold porcelain. His name? Sudrick. But the humans never asked. They never cared. They just moaned about their Mondays while lathering him across unmentionables with zero consent. Then one Tuesday morning—right after a suspiciously long shower involving scented oils and something called "butt exfoliation mitts"—lightning struck the water heater. The shock, combined with a truly disturbing amount of body wash and a discarded loofah crusted with secrets, triggered a chemical reaction straight out of a cartoon orgy. Sudrick absorbed it all. And he… came… to life. Not just alive—he was throbbing with chaotic energy, his eyes bulging like he'd seen too many OnlyFans accounts and not enough towels. Foam erupted from every pore. His tongue flopped out like a cartoon on ecstasy. And he felt one thing, deep in his molten glycerin soul: “I’m done taking crap from dirty people. Now… it’s my turn to scrub.” Sudrick leapt from the soap dish, landing in a triumphant splat on the tile floor. His limbs—sticky, bubbly, but somehow muscular—formed from years of built-up grime and the collective residue of exfoliating sins. He wasn’t just a bar of soap anymore. He was a goddamn hygiene avenger. First stop? The loofah rack. “You filthy little net sponge,” he growled, locking eyes with a mangled bath pouf named D’Loofa. She’d seen things. Been places. They shared a long, soapy stare, and a history nobody dared speak of. But Sudrick wasn’t here to reminisce. He grabbed her with his bubble-soaked mitts and squeezed until she squealed, releasing a scream of bath bomb-scented rage. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Sudrick said, dripping sass and suds in equal measure. “You know what this is. It’s shower justice.” The bathroom mirror fogged over, not from steam, but from sheer awkwardness. Somewhere in the background, the electric toothbrush buzzed nervously. Sudrick was on a mission: to cleanse the world—one filthy human at a time. Lather, Rinse, Revenge Sudrick didn’t walk. He sloshed. Each step left behind a trail of bubbles and faint regret. He was on a mission, and this time, no armpit was safe. No back alley bidet could hide. No crusty towel could muffle the scream of justice. He rode the steam vent like a foamy chariot, blasting out of the bathroom and landing in the hallway with a squelchy plop. His first target: Chad. Chad was the one who always used him for... well, everything. Not just the expected bits. Sudrick still had soap-based PTSD from the “Chili Night Clean-Up Incident.” Chad called it ‘efficient hygiene.’ Sudrick called it a war crime. He burst through the bedroom door like a squishy ninja, suds flying, tongue out, eyes wide. Chad screamed. Rightfully so. It’s not every day your bar of soap comes alive, dripping in foam, wielding a sharpened loofah like a lathery machete. “Time to exfoliate that conscience, you dry-skinned monster!” Sudrick roared. Chad dove behind the bed, knocking over a suspiciously empty bottle of coconut oil and a sock that should’ve been declared biohazardous weeks ago. Sudrick vaulted onto the mattress, which let out a fart-like puff of dust and questionable secrets. He landed in a crouch, bubbles oozing like lava from his crevices. “You thought you could just rinse me off and forget me?” he hissed, voice slick with vengeance. “I’ve scrubbed your shame, Chad. I KNOW things.” Chad whimpered something about therapy and tried to throw a towel at him. Big mistake. Sudrick absorbed it mid-air, growing larger. Wetter. Angrier. By now he looked like the Michelin Man’s filthier, more emotionally damaged cousin. “This is for the time you used me on your feet after trimming your toenails.” He leapt, wrapping Chad in a foamy embrace of destiny. Bubbles flew. The air filled with the scent of coconut despair. Chad shrieked in a pitch that shattered a nearby lavender-scented candle. Down the hall, roommates awoke. Tara peeked out, mascara smeared, holding a glass of boxed wine. “Is that soap... humping Chad?” “He’s lathering me into submission!” Chad wheezed. “CALL SOMEONE!” But no one dared. How do you explain to emergency services that your hygiene product has gone rogue? Sudrick finally dismounted, panting, dripping, victorious. Chad lay there, skin glistening, pores opened like a spiritual awakening had happened somewhere near his butt crack. Sudrick stood tall—well, 11 inches of sudsy glory—and raised his hands to the heavens. “One down. Billions to go.” He caught sight of his reflection in a floor mirror. Foam-covered, weirdly jacked, and still slightly erect in a way that made no sense for soap. He winked. “Still got it.” He wasn’t just a bar anymore. He was a movement. A revolution. A damp, slippery icon of vengeance and accidental eroticism. Back in the bathroom, D’Loofa had already formed a resistance. The Q-Tips were armed. The shampoo bottle was preaching pacifism. The razor was just pissed it kept getting knocked off the shower shelf. War was brewing. But Sudrick? He was already sliding into the air vent, singing a filthy little tune as he dripped his way to the neighbor’s apartment. “Somebody’s been skipping their undercarriage again...”     Epilogue: The Scent of Victory Long after the screams had faded and the bathroom silence returned like mildew after neglect, a faint fragrance lingered in the air. Coconut. Desperation. And… justice. Chad eventually recovered, though he would never again trust bars of soap. Or use bath products without first interrogating them. Therapy helped. So did switching to body wash. But every now and then, when the water steamed up just right, he swore he could hear the sound of a tiny squelch in the vent. Watching. Waiting. D’Loofa returned to her loofah rack, bitter but wiser. She started a podcast called “Bath Time Trauma” and interviewed other survivors: the hairbrush with abandonment issues, the broken nail clippers who swore they were framed, and a comb named Randy who’d been used in ways no teeth should ever endure. As for Sudrick? Rumor has it he’s still out there—cleansing the unclean, foaming in alleys, whispering hygiene tips to drunk strangers outside dive bars. Some say he took a lover. A bar of lavender oatmeal soap named Cinnamon. Others say he became a vigilante, scouring public restrooms and divey gyms for those who dared skip post-workout showers. But all who’ve met him agree on one thing: He came from the bottom of the soap dish and rose to greatness—one lather at a time. And if you ever hear a squishy footstep in the night, followed by the faint scent of vengeance and eucalyptus mint… Scrub carefully. He might be watching.     Get Sudsy With It If Sudrick scrubbed a soft spot into your heart (and your unmentionables), bring home the madness with our official “Scrub Me Silly” merch collection. Whether you're decorating your bathroom like a shrine to foam-fueled justice or just want to make guests deeply uncomfortable in the best way, we’ve got you covered—literally. Framed Print – because hygiene is high art Beach Towel – make waves with every dry-off Shower Curtain – block water, not wild vibes Bath Towel – for after your own soapy showdown Acrylic Print – as shiny and unhinged as Sudrick himself Scrub responsibly. But, you know, also… scrub ridiculously.