You know what’s CrAzY? I’ll tell you what’s CrAzY!
It begins: “My darling Greg”
That’s the first sign of trouble. Any wife or girlfriend who communicates to you through a billboard is a wife or girlfriend who needs to be watched closely. Without knowing another thing about your relationship, my advice is get out now while you can.
My first thought reading this: if I’m leaving the toilet seat up, My Darling is not the words my wife is going to summon.
“Hey, you inconsiderate A-Hole! I’m going to rip your scotum off and turn your junk into cat food if you don’t put that damn seat down.”
Before domestic bliss filled my life, I was like Greg. I doubt I paid a lot of attention to urination procedures. Toilet seat up or down? Who cares! Back in the day, there might have been more options than that: toilet or sink or tub. Who cared.
Back in the day, when I was a bachelor, eliminating a full bladder was a mindless exercise. It was as simple as finding a suitable vessel to contain said urine and then get on with the execretory task at hand. There were no rolled up newspapers swatting me on the nose. Nobody was screaming “bad dog” at me. Nobody was withholding sex, putting up billboards or calling me “Darling” in a threatening tone. Back in the day urine was urine and where it went was nobody’s business but mine.
Lid up? Lid Down. Who had time to care?
That was then, this is now. The days of urinating like a farm animal are over. In my novacane filled bog of domestic tranquility, the key to surviving marriage is always saying “i’m sorry, you’re right, dear.”
In this new world order, where all manly cave tendencies have been stripped away, I am a robot of predictability. I shuffle in the dark of night to the commode and stop to raise the toilet seat.
My wife has broken my urinary spirit. I am the stallion who no longer runs free across the prairie as God had intended. I have become a domesticated co-habitant, who now stands at 2am, one eye open, hoping my stream is strong and singular and doesn’t spray.
When I am done, I would prefer to just walk away. The inner rebel in me wants urination anarchy. I want to leave that seat up. I want the luxurious freedom of being able to stroll over to the commode at any time of the day or night, eyes open or closed and let loose. I don’t want to have to think. Hmmm, my bladder is full, aching to let loose, but first, let me think. Is the seat up? Is the seat down? At 3 am with my pajamas around my ankles, I’m lucky I’m not pissing on the wall.
Back to supid ass Greg? How ridiculous are the urination habits of this moron if his woman is spending thousands of dollars to remind him to put the seat down? What’s that cost? Get out now GREG get out now!!
Sydney news stations began prying into the billboard. Who is Greg? And what kind of woman would put up with Greg’s B.S.?
Well, as is so often the case, the billboard was nothing more than a marketing scheme: “For the Love of Humanity” which is a Facebook application for friends to challenge themselves and do good deeds for society.
The stations got a local etiquette expert to weigh in on the topic of seat up or seat down. Here is what Patsy Rowe thinks:
“The toilet seat is a kind of litmus test of how much a man cares for me,” she said.
Yeah, the toilet is a true indicator of love isn’t it men?
“Jimmy you never say you love me.”
“Ah, baby you know I love you. Just go look at the toilet seat.”
“Oh baby, you never buy me earrirngs or take me out to dinner.”
“Yeah, but I put the toilet seat down. That’s true love, baby. Now go fetch me another beer.”
I guess the good people of Facebook didn’t want to end world hunger or spay or neuter a dog with their “The Love of humanity” campaign. No, instead they are focusing on: men who tinkle and the women who want to castrate them.
women, if you love your man, put newspaper down in the garage and give him some space. There’s only so many building blocks of manhood you can stip away before the fight or flight instinct kicks in.
Choose wisely. Is urine the battle you want to wage?
This is why the world is so crazy!