anthropomorphic soap

par 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.

par 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.