Fictionlet
“You ever notice that people don’t squeeze the Charmin any more?” asked Greg.
“What?” said Brigid.
“Well, I was just—”
“Why would I notice a thing like that?” Brigid demanded. “Why would you notice a thing like that? Frankly I find it hard to believe that anybody in the history of ever actually did squeeze the Charmin!”
Greg shrugged noncommittally, but now that Brigid was warming up, she wasn’t about to stop. “I mean, come on. I know you’re Mr. Airy Persiflage, but you’re not stupid. Squeezing the Charmin was something some Madison Avenue suit came up with, just like the San Francisco treat or the quicker picker-upper. You’ve got to know that, haven’t you?”
“Mmm,” said Greg, more focused on his driving than her rant.
“‘Mmm’?” echoed Brigid. “Don’t you have anything more to say than ‘Mmm’?”
Greg glanced over at her. “You’ve got ring around the collar,” he said, then focused his attention on a tricky left turn. The fact that he was the one in the driver’s seat is probably what saved his life.
-The Gneech
