…so go on, keep smearing yourself every morning with your precious face-towel… your dank, damp, feculent, terry-cloth disease blanket with its Black Death cargo of mold spores and skin mites and dander and pubic hair; with the inevitable flecks of feces and teeming bio-mass of bacterial sludge; with effluence from every bodily opening and orifice – from nostril to anal sphincter.  Smear away!

In the meanwhile, all good-hearted folks will continue to hold back the onslaught of filth as best they can with the glorious soap-bar and its active cleansing properties, delightful aromas and restorative and hydrating additives; with its perpetually regenerative surface sloughing off the veritable cornucopia of nastiness which the wash-cloth rabble seem so intent on wiping across their own dermis and rubbing into their own eyes and mouths.

You non-soap-bar individuals, walking the streets in your personal cone of putrescence – you are a disgusting stain on polite society and an affront to the pristine goodness of the Bar Soap Glitterati.

For shame.

For shame.