Scot points out that your cheap, uncomfortable paper towels may be turning your employees against you. Indeed, this gentleman has already acquired both the demeanor and moustache of the Communist. In other news, were you aware that you can catch Fascism from public restroom toilet seats? Believe it.

Is your washroom breeding Bolsheviks? [Flickr] uploaded by Will S. : Socyberty : Neatorama

Some pages from a 1950s pamphlet entitled “Protection from the ATOMIC BOMB” which outlines the proper procedures when a nuclear cataclysm occurs. This is easily my favorite page. Indeed I was previously unaware that, should I witness a flash of light brighter than the Sun, I should immediately do a face-plant and stay down for one minute because really, once your retinas have been seared by an atomic explosion, there’s not much else to do. After that one minute though, you should be able to get up and go about your business, safe in the knowledge that you’re too smart for those Communists.

Atomic Bomb pamphlet [Vintage Ads]

Robert DOISNEAU, Les Animaux Superieurs, 1954 [vintagephoto]

A bisected look inside the claustrophobic suit-and-tie apocalypse of the 1950s.

Doomsday starts well enough: the Cleavers are able to deftly dodge the superheated radioactive shockwave with a quick duck-and-cover. From there, Father abandons his half-smoked pipe and half-read newspaper, Mother quickly dries the dishes and puts them back on the shelves, the children put their toys in their toy chests. Then it’s time to trundle off to the lead-lined coffin installed by Acme in the backyard, insured for fifty years of Nuclear Winter security!

The fallout shelter has all the amenities of home, including a top-of-the-line geiger counter, a swank Radiolux with both amplitude and frequency modulation, and, the envy of all their neighbors, a swank retractable periscope, perfect for observing the shambling, mutagenic horrors of the nightmare world outside.

Unfortunately, the Cleavers forgot one absolutely vital amenity for the armageddon lifestyle: a toilet. Thus guaranteeing that a thousand years hence, when the mutated archeologists of some post-apocalyptic civilization finally crack open the Cleavers’ chthonic shelter, all they will find is a feculent septic tank full of sewage, upon which drifts a flotsam made up of a string of pearls, a reeking penny loafer and four human skulls of an excremental, nut-brown patina.