Let's put it like this: if I was on the subway and this soap sat down next to me, I'd get up and move to another subway car. What the hell are you doing to it? It's hardened and cracked, like Charles Bukowski's nose. This soap is basically a country song in soap-form; it probably has a drinking problem and hasn't talked to its kids in years. Oh man. It has more streaks in it than the quad on campus during homecoming week.
First of all, lathering is out of the question. It's like running into your ex with his new flame; it will be uncomfortable for all parties involved. And, it's totally unbreakable, like an everlasting gobstopper. It's probably mutated into a higher life form by now. It even might be half-robot. Who knows?
I hate this bar of soap. I refuse to use it. Just put it out of its misery (i.e. throw it out.) Splurge for a bottle of body wash. That's what all the kids use these days. Cracked, hardened bar of soap, you're the child actor of the soap family that's grown up to have a meth habit, tried to rob a bank and had a tell-all exclusive story appear in People. You are old news! You must be shunned! And, that just makes me sad.