Lather pockets.

No longer just my hip-hop name.

Now lather pockets are my morning infuriation and will be for the next few months.

I bought a six-pack of Dial soap this week. I noticed it was extolling the addition of “lather pockets”, but I honestly did not pay it any mind.

Today, I cracked that pack open, ready for the day (lie) and full of joie-de-vie (lie).

But there is a tangible feeling of comfort and satisfaction in opening up a fresh bar of soap. It’s smooth, it’s dry, it’s clean. It feels good to hold a fresh bar of soap, even knowing that in a moment, you’re going to get it all slimy and stick at least two body hairs to it. It’s a good moment, no matter how fleeting.

But for lather pockets.

What the-actual-fuck con-job is this? Dial just took a mini melon-baller to my perfect soap and stole some from me. Eight times! For each of my six bars of soap. Forty-eight soap scoops missing from my new soaps. It’s awful! They don’t even really act as lather enhancers either, seeing as how my lush chest hair already makes me the human loofah.

Dial, you done me wrong. I hope you’re happy with yourselves because you did done me wrong.

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