Andrew Holmgren, contributor
I can predict the future. Yes, you read that correctly: the future. Not only can I predict it, but I’m going to share it with you now.
I live in a house with nine other comedians, many of whom write for this magazine you’re reading today, and it has made me a bit of a prophet. The future that I can see is of one specific issue of Savage Henry that winds up in my house. In my bathroom, to be specific. I know that one day, on the day of our weekly toilet paper drought, there will be a movement. A bowel movement, that is. Usually I can predict the drought. I can go to a friend’s house, a cafe, a bar, anywhere but my bathroom. Not on this day, no, on this day I will be unprepared. I will rush down the hall to the water closet, and I’ll taste that sweet sweet relief that only a good BM can provide. It is there in that moment of euphoria and afterglow that I’ll realize that I am all alone. There is nothing worse than being up shit creek without a TP paddle, and that’s exactly where I’ll find myself. The future that I am predicting is not my own, but of this particular page of this particular magazine. This simple innocent page will go on to join its fallen comrades of issues past, serving as the straw that broke the camels back and clogging my plumbing, also serving as the last straw for my landlord and her waning patience for us. This page will cause my eviction, this page will make me homeless. Even now as I write this I know I could just not write this page and everything will be fine; I’ll never use it as a substitute for soft biodegradable toilet paper and I’ll never be out on the street without a place to go, but it seems like it’s too late. As you read this just know that I need your help. Book me to perform in your town and let me crash on your couch, because I need a place to stay tonight.