NOTE — From the files back in March. Designated Writers has been out front of this issue for months!

By TEDDY ALLEN/Designated Writers

We wrote about a Texas Drive-In last week. You can read it here: 

Then we wrote a follow-up that’s available by cutting and pasting here:

And we were thrilled to see this headline in the Los Angeles Times this week, sent to us by DW loyalist and DW, favorite Ron White:

“Amid coronavirus outbreak, drive-in theaters unexpectedly find their moment”

And there you have it. DW was ahead of the curve (sort of) on the drive-in situation.

There are slightly more than 300 active drive-ins in America now. Sadly, none are in Louisiana. But there was a time …

Susan sent us these memories that we share with you. Happy viewing, and stay healthy.

From Susan:

“May I add one more memory about drive-ins?

“My daughters and I visited a friend whose husband was in the Air Force in Nebraska. We took their Ford Aerostar minivan across the state line to Council Bluffs, Iowa to one of the few remaining drive-ins. My daughters were 6 and 8 and had never even seen a drive-in. We parked the minivan backwards and had a blow up mattress in the back of the van which actually was quite fun! It was not unlike a sleep over.

“What really was quite humorous to me is that a pickup truck parked next to us and unloaded a grill! They proceeded to have a cook out at the drive-in! And on the other side of us was a pickup truck that had a couch in the bed! I will never forget that evening because it marked the end of an era for me since I haven’t been to another drive-in since. I was happy that my daughters got to experience something that we all took for granted from the ‘old days’.”

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(First ran in the Sunday, March 22 editions of The Times and The News-Star. Additionally, DW co-founder JJ has toilet paper thoughts. Who doesn’t? You can read his here. He is down to single-digit rolls, but I’ve got his back(side) covered. Yours too if you need it. Plenty of depth here at the supplemental DW headquarters. I refuse to leave a man down on the field. What a strange two weeks this has been!)

The question here in the middle of a harsh pandemic involves the tricky toilet paper situation.

If you are like me and you don’t really know what pandemic means but you figure — again if you’re like me, which would be sad — that it means you can’t watch college basketball, then that’s a colossal bummer.

But pandemic could mean that all the toilet-paper-making people have died. It must mean that, because people are buying toilet paper like they’ve just inherited four extra digestive systems to care for.

It’s a new kind of March Madness.

And still, as crazy as things are, is this a reason to hoard toilet paper? Just because Butler is not going to square off against San Diego State?

These last few weird days are a harsh and grim reminder that the colon makes the playing field level for both the prince and the pauper. Toilet paper sales skyrocket each time there is the first hint of an area-wide shut down, whether it comes disguised as a hurricane, ice storm, or virus.

In this case, it’s a worldwide shutdown. Let’s face it: these are strange and eerie times. We are all bit players in a Rod Serling script.

And to make matters worse, there is no toilet paper.

See, that’s the thing. There IS toilet paper. But you would think, from looking at the toilet paper shelves at many stores this week— and that’s all you could see: shelves — that the corona virus was going to kill every toilet paper company employee within gravity’s pull. I surveyed the wasteland there on Aisle 3 and thought of the old hit by Peter, Paul and Mary hit…

Where has all the two-ply gone,

Gone to early shoppers’ homes.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn?

Where has all the one-ply gone,

It’s by someone else’s throne.

When will they ever learn?

When will they ever learn…

 Don’t get me wrong. I am pro-toilet paper, and a champion of the colon. My house is perpetually stocked with enough toilet paper to supply Iowa. Stroll through our bathrooms and you’d think we were always in the middle of a national crisis.

But that’s just how we roll. We never “stock up.” We stock. When I go to the store, I’m leaving with at least three things: milk, bread, TP. Standard.

This behavior might be because of the love-hate relationship between me and my colon. When I go on trips, as soon as I hit the state line my colon says, very clearly and every time, “Fine. You go. I’m staying home.”

And it does. It’s an awful way to live.

But that is beside the point. The point is, just pick up TP each time you go to the store so you won’t have to hoard. Besides, it would seem that you’d get food first, and I’ve noticed plenty of food in the store. If you don’t have food to eat, you’re not going to even need much TP.

If we were to suffer a toilet paper shortage, there’s one more reason to subscribe to the newspaper.

Two interesting calls this week, one from my friend Bill in Arkansas. His friend owns several hotels. “This crisis is going to cost me a couple million dollars,” he told Bill, “but on the bright side, I’ve got all the toilet paper you could ever need.”

Sweetness.

And John John wrote from Dallas to say that a local radio message has been airing all week. The sponsor isn’t even identified. The spokeswoman has the voice of your favorite school teacher. She calmly says that, although there have been so many recent cancellations in Dallas, these have not been canceled: Love, hope, caring, friends, neighbors, or respect; relationships have not been canceled, conversations with friends have not been canceled, being with or talking to loved ones has not been canceled, being kind and decent has not been canceled, and being a strong and proud American has not been canceled.

That’s the spirit!

So let’s share. Spare a square. Don’t buy all the TP. Flush the thought. Get enough for now and move along, or else this poem might describe us soon:

   Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

   The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

   And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

   But there is no joy in our town — toilet paper has run out.

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