There once was a man named Dean
Whose drug addiction cost'm a spleen
Everywhere he would bring
A bar of Irish Spring
In hopes that one day he'd get clean
There once was a man named Dean
Whose drug addiction cost'm a spleen
Everywhere he would bring
A bar of Irish Spring
In hopes that one day he'd get clean
A few years ago I set out to build a decent replacement of a rail to my front porch. The design process involved iterating over visualizations of vertical slat width and spacing until I was satisfied with the look. The iteration converged on a slat width that would ultimately require me to rip many boards of cedar down to this arbitrary width. While it produced an optimum width board, it also produced a complimentary series of uniform sticks with no apparent use. At the time, I felt it would be a waste to simply throw away such a large collection of nice sticks, so I held on to them.
More recently, while working on formulations for shave soap, I had the idea to make some soap and mount it on a stick so that I wouldn't need to fondle a sloppy, soggy bar of soap on a slimy dish just to wash my hands. Not so arbitrarily, I settled on the dimensions of a typical toilet paper roll as the basis of the soap mass. To make a mold for this neue soap grotesk, I quite literally used a toilet paper roll glued on-end to a piece of flat cardboard. Then came the stick. Then came a recollection of the collection of perfectly uniform cedar sticks that would indeed prove not to be waste.
Today, I washed my hands with that proto-ReciproSoap like I have been doing from time to time when I happen to use its bathroom to relieve myself. This time, I noticed the appearance of a thin brown sliver along the long axis of the soap. A breakthrough! How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? How many strokes does it take to get to the stick of a ReciproSoap? Who's the best pilot?
Two soaps in a week
I bet you think that's pretty clever, don't you soap?
Soaping on your motorcycle
Watching all the soap beneath you drop
Soap yourself for recognition
Soap yourself to never ever stop
You broke another soap
You're soaping into something you are not
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Soaping up in conversation
You will be the one who cannot soap
All your soaps fall to pieces
You just sit there wishing you could still make soap
They're the soaps who'll hate you
When you think you've got the soap all sussed out
They're the soap who'll spit at you
You'll be the soap screaming out
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Oh, it's the best soap that you ever had
The best soap you ever, ever had
It's the best soap that you ever had
The best soap you have had is gone away*
D-don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me high
Don't leave me dry
*Editorial note: ReciproSoap is just getting started.
Another night in the city. Another case. Another lead. These long nights of walking the beat can wear on a soul. The sound of a lonely saxophone swells and fades, hoping to attract kindred spirits as I make my way past a neon-lit jazz club - the Slippery Bar.
While the sound of a stiff drink and the company of lost souls could prove a needed distraction from this loneliness, I decide to press on to the Soap Factory - a spa in the underbelly of this metropolis, providing services for the dingiest of those who prey from our alleyways. I am going undercover as a soap broker, hoping to find out anything I can to pull together a string of missing persons that all lead to the same place: here. As I stare at the unassuming doors in front of me, I pause briefly to find my resolve before I edge my way in. My briefcase, holding 30 bars of morning dew scented soap, recoils as it bumps into the door frame.
The strung-out, haggard receptionist gives me a quick glance, then a cautious once-over. "I ain't seen you 'round here before..." she snaps and stares me in the eye with her cool, lifeless gaze. She then darts a quick glance over to a trench-coatted man in the corner. The man takes off his fedora to reveal a deep scar cracking across his face and slowly turns a milky-white eye, long dead, in my direction. His physique, barely bridled by his otherwise baggy clothing, tells me this is the muscle of the joint. He nods and in a gravelly voice he rumbles out a "Boss is waiting for you."
A side door opens, hidden from view, to a back office lit only by flickering fluorescent lights. As my eyes adjust, I see piles of empty bleach bottles and boxes of lye, large buckets overflowing with brownish-red sludge. The overwhelming stench pierces through the equally aggressive aroma of industrial cleaners and degreasers. As I tear up from the stinging air, I trudge toward a man sitting behind a desk. His dominant nose dwarfs his other features, demanding my attention as I ease my briefcase on the desk, open it, and turn it for him to see.
He inhales, lets out a sigh and pauses, locking his nostrils on the goods. It feels like a minute goes by before he turns to me, seething, "You think I didn't know? This is the soap order we placed over the top. We already received the last of the spring clean bars we managed to work out of our... less than cooperative... rivals at the French-mill yard across town." Dread set in - I already knew the connections of the missing persons to the gang across town. I didn't know the Soap Factory knew we knew.
As I start to calm myself down, working my thoughts to find a way out, a bang followed by a rush of warm liquid pooling from my chest let me know I was too late. My shoes slip as I fall, writhing to the ground. As the dark came seeping in to my eyes, I reminisce: all I wanted to do was clean up the streets, but I guess sometimes the best of us end up getting cleaned ourselves.
One weekend afternoon, as I sat on my 1970s burnt orange sofa, recently acquired from my unfamiliar neighbor's yard sale, my TV on but mind elsewhere, three sharp knocks intruded upon my state demanding my attention.
I rose and with the same anticipation as one cuts open an unexpected Amazon package, I opened the door. A man was calling, in his hand a 6 pack of soap, Irish Spring. It was Bill Gates. "Yes?" I asked.
"I have a proposition for you: you eat this soap and I give you a million dollars, or I take your wallet," he replied in his froggy tone.
"Come in," I said mentally committing to consuming the soap and gathering the resolve to see it through.
We sat at my table of solid wood, he on one end, I at the other. "If I eat and vomit, must I eat my vomit?"
"No, you must chew and swallow all the soap, if some comes up it's ok. It must all go down, but not necessarily stay down, ok?"
"Ok."
He slid the retail package towards me. I unwrapped the gaudy green plastic wrap spilling 6 bars of individual Irish Spring retail boxes in front of me. Opening one, my hand held a pristine bar of fragrant soap.
A quick bite and the first piece free, in my mouth slipping everywhere evading my attempts to chew. Saliva flowed profusely, spewing from my lips down my chin, soiling my shirt. I smiled thinking of the fortune that awaited me. Giving up with chewing, I swallowed the decidedly overzealous portion strategizing to bite small and swallow henceforth.
Halfway through the first bar I gagged, then spewed forth a frothey absurd mix of juxtaposed smells across my well-crafted table. "Mind over matter," went my inner monologue as I bit small and swallowed fast. I triumphed over the first bar.
Bill Gates said nothing, watching me through the process, apparently unmoved and unimpressed by my conviction.
Halfway through the next bar, my body rejected its contents again, thereby establishing a rhythm: one bar one puke. Bar after bar, the little soap boxes became soaked as it spilled over the table onto the linoleum tile floor. I continued.
The last bite consumed, I looked at Bill Gates through my tears and bloodshot eyes. He nodded and shared a glimpse of a smile. Then, he stood up and motioned towards the door. There, on my doormat, was a briefcase.
Without hesitation I moved to the door, grabbed the case by it's stitched leather handle and encouraged by it's weight, set it on my now obscene table. I snapped open the latches in synchronized fashion, opened and before me was a large gold ingot and bundles of 100 dollar bills, well over one million!
Bill Gates left, proposition made and transaction completed. Bewildered over the whole thing and now substantially more wealthy my mind raced, "Now what?"
Locking my door, I brought the case to the bathroom. I got in the shower, grabbed the soap, and realized a completely new relationship with this admittedly otherwise unexamined everyday item. Pathway to fortune and not for consumption, celebratory suds covered my body. Rinsed clean, I am delivered with new fortune by the Good Soap.
Now clothed, I sat on my sofa, TV on but thoughts elsewhere, on soap.
Soap Soup, Soap Soup, oh the flavor, I like it so much it cleans my behavior.
When you eat a soap and you want some flavor, get a bowl of soup that you’re sure to savor.
Soap story starts stating: soap smells so surprisingly spring. Such soapy sagas sow strength.
Opposers obviously organize other options otherwise.
Almost all aficionados approve another answer. Absolutely any acid automatically allows assurance.
Perfumes, probably provide peace pacification. Problems perceived pass proof protocol.
Lather it up!
Soap. You make me clean.
Without you I smell obscene.
So fresh. So nice. Soap.
Let's get straight to it- I really like soap. I can't imagine my world without soap. Soap has so many desirable qualities, but I would like to know more about soap, and specifically more about ReciproSoap. The greatest quality of soap is it's cleaning ability. How would I wash the stench of the workday off my body without soap? Or free my hands of COVID-19 after touching surfaces in a public place? I want soap to clean me and I appreciate a creamy lather, but I also don't want soap to wash all the oils off my skin. How does one make soap that can do that? Does RecirproSoap do that? I really want to know more about ReciproSoap. Does it have fragrance? Is it vegan? Is both potassium hydroxide and sodium hydroxide used to make RecirpoSoap, and if so, what are the proportions? Thanks, Soap!
It's still not clear why I, the Benevolent Overlord of ReciproSoap, made this thing, but the fact of the matter is that it is here. So, let's talk about soap and see where it goes. I think ReciproSoap can be an interesting place to spend some time looking at nice shapes, discussing soap stories, designing soap, and relaxing. I invite you to start thinking about soap in ways you haven't in the past. Do you trust soap? Does it make you clean? How does it make your skin feel? What's it like to make soap? Have you ever interviewed someone whose answer to a question was a story about soap? I have. It was weird, but I'll never forget it. They were making soap out of breast milk, which is admirable, I think (unless the kid is not getting their fill). I want to hear people's stories about soap because I think they can be entertaining. Have you ever known someone who bent over to pick up the soap? A long time ago, I went swimming at public pool with an older neighborhood friend, and when we hit the showers afterward, he grabbed a bar of abandoned soap and started scrubbing up. I thought it was gross, but he suggested that "it's soap, it makes you clean, so it must be clean, right?" I don't know. But I remember that. I've never done that. Have you ever said some fucking shit that resulted in getting your mouth cleaned with soap? What did it taste like? Have you ever explored the slippery properties of soap for purposes other than sanitation? I don't know. Start writing.
I ate soap one time. I threw up violently and had to go to the ER. Best decision of my life. So today, I would like to discuss why we should give soap to newborn babies. When I ate soap, I got superpowers. My vision was blurry(Like superman), and I started shooting out green stuff which must've been acid power. I also had really good breath, so good that I burped out bubbles. I have already tested this on my little brother, who is now purple. I am currently requesting money from investors to open my very own company, that feeds people soap whether they want it or not. I'm only looking for a small fee of 200,000,000 dollars to pay for my expenses, as well as adding my own soap skin to Fortnite. Honestly, I think the soap is getting to my head as I am currently feeling a current sense of confusion that currently confuses my current in my brain's currents. It's pretty crazy if you ask me. Crazy? I was crazy once. They locked me in a room. A room full of rats. Rats? Rats make me crazy. Crazy? I was crazy once. They fed me soap when I was crazy. I can't think about anything but soap. Soap is love. Soap is life. I need soap. My life has been empty without soap. I keep eating soap, to the point where I don't even throw up, it just goes in and out of my body. Soap. Soap. Soap. Soap. Soap. Soap. Saop. Saap. Sap. Tree Sap. Pine tree. Mint smell. Clean smell. Soap Smell. Soap. I can't think anymore. Just soap. Soap.