Even in this Internet age of ADD, of instant idiom and constant communication, the passing of an American Icon is worthy of pause, of notice, of reflection upon who we are as a generation, of where we've been, and at the last, where we're going. I speak, of course, of the passing of Dick Wilson, at 91 years of age.
Mr. Whipple has finally squeezed the Charmin.
Yes, the man we all knew as the last best protector of the irresistibly squeezable soft white fluff that is Charmin asswipes, is gone. We loved that old fart, not just for his staunch defense of the Charmin against the grocery-squeezing public, but because we knew that deep down, he didn't blame us for wanting to give that package a lusty hug. We knew he was going to pinch it himself, as soon as he closed up when we were out of the store, and the best part was that he knew that we knew it. And he didn't care. The quiet hypocrisy of his official position ("Please, don't squeeze the Charmin!") was his shield, but we all saw him give us a wink from behind it.
Now, we are left with nothing, and less than nothing. We are left with simpering bears, without even the decency to shit in the woods as bears should, but rather stomping off, leaving a trail of Mr. Whipple's familiar roll of squeezable white fluff. Ursus arctos horriblis, a 700 pound omnivore, needs 4 squares of cottony goodness to wipe his furry ursine ass? I'm not squeezing THAT.
So fare thee well, Mr. Whipple. After more than 500 commercials, still, we hardly knew ye. May all the TP be soft in heaven, and may you squeeze to your heart's delight.