I, on the other hand, am not as quick to shoulder the blame. I personally handled that order requisition, and while your intention may well have been to write "more toilet paper", I can without hesitation swear that the letters you managed to scrawl onto the sensoscreen came out as saying "more toilet scraper".

Fair enough. Simple mistake. I placed a form to ship you all one of those steel gum-scraping utensils. But no. You couldn't have followed regulations and written a specific quantity. You had to write simply "more". So there you were, asking for more of a scraper...used in a singular context. Obviously, we'd gotten the product wrong.

So the order was returned, and we went to work developing a solvent for priming porcelain. One hundred and sixty thousand dollars in development, Captain, because the tail of your "p" was feeling eccentric. An astronaut, hand-selected by a committee of the planet's most powerful and intelligent people from out of legions of elite candidates, charged with running and coordinating the most significant and advanced structure in species history, and you manage to screw up writing the word "paper" coherently.

I'm not shouldering this. Hell no. I won't. I won't do it. This type of stuff gets pulled from my salary, and damnit, I'm going to have a birthday party this year if it kills me. You know what I did last year, Willingham? Cried. I stared at a monitor and cried. Not just during the hours where I should be being toasted after an awkwardly stale conversation with my seasonal rental friends. No. For the day. For the birthday.

As far as I'm concerned? You will use the toilet scraper. You will love it. You will draw away every drip we've manufactured, even if you have to slip small doses into the ration bars, drinking water, and moisturizing lotion. You will prime those toilets into their middle age. And you'll look grateful doing it.

Command out.