Stupid Girl Toilets

I like to think I’m a Sensitive Man of the ‘80s.  I know that, due to it being 2012, a sensitive man of the ‘80s may not be such a triumphant achievement, but I’d bet there are some women who would be happy to have any semblance of sensitivity in their spouse or significant other.

Way back in the 1980s, the media cast its spotlight on The Sensitive Man of the ‘80s, focusing its glare on how most men were insensitive.  Some journalists—undoubtedly female— would find some example of how sensitive some random guy was and tout that as the example of how that author thought a man should act.  That, then, put the rest of us Regular Joe’s in various degrees of hot water because we weren’t like the men being featured in these articles.  I’d be willing to bet that none of the men in these articles really even existed and were simply made up by the (female) journalists to pressure their man into being more sensitive.

Of course, once a specific man bent to the media hype and pressure and started behaving in the sensitive manner outlined in these articles—perhaps listening attentively and nodding or shedding a tear at the proper moment—he’d get dumped for being a wimp.

See, there’s no figuring women.  They don’t do things like a rational person would.  Say, a man, for example.  That’s why they have stupid girl toilets.  But I’ll get to that in a moment.

And I know that bringing up toilets in any conversation about men and women will inevitably lead to the toilet seat argument.  There really shouldn’t be an argument, but there is.  Women complain about men always leaving the seat up after they urinate.  Men don’t see the problem.  Men are used to seats being in either position.  Still, if I’ve learned anything in my life it is that this argument is unwinnable for men.

Now, Ladies, because I started this, if you want to call me and give me your personal side of the argument—or make a comment below—I will accept your wrath.  But my position on the toilet seat argument is this:  The women’s argument is selfish.  Or, at very least, insensitive to the “requirements” of a man with regards to the toilet.  That’s why they have stupid girl toilets.  Again, I’ll get to that in a moment.

Here We Go

The standard complaint a woman makes about the toilet seat issue is, “Have you ever gone to use the toilet in the middle of the night and sat down and fallen into the cold water?!” (And there’s usually many more exclamation points following that question.)  My answer is, “No.  Never.”  And it is because men always check.  Women don’t check.  Women expect the toilet seat to be like it was when they last used it.  Men are used to two options.  Women, only one.  And, before you comment, I do not accept as a valid point the reason, “But it is esthetically proper to put the lid down when you are done.”  I agree that it is proper to put the seat and lid down when finished with the toilet.  I will even brag to you here that I always do that when I am finished.  But women don’t.  Oh, they use the argument that it is proper—and, again, the argument is valid—but 99.99999% of women I have known do not put the lid down.  They use the facilities, get up and leave, then expect when they return that it will be like they left it.

They’re acting selfishly.  They’re acting selfishly and trying to cloud the issue with aesthetics.  Loudly.

And If That Wasn’t Enough

The other issue widening the rift between the genders and toilets is that women want men to sit down and use the toilet for urination.  Sit down.  Sit down to pee.  Actually sit.  Down.

Sit.

Down.

Their initial reasoning here is, if men did this, then they wouldn’t have to check for the position of the seat; which goes back to my original position on them acting selfishly.

The other issue is the, shall we say, indiscriminate aim of some men when standing at the toilet.

My mother has often told me that by the time I was old enough to stand before the toilet and reach my equipment up to the edge of the toilet, I insisted on standing and doing it myself.  She often demonstrated her story by using her little finger across her opposite palm, indicating how I barely could get it to the edge of the bowl and then sending a full-force stream caroming off the back of the tank and dousing, on a side wall, a small framed picture of a smiling goldfish.

In this case, I agree with you ladies.  Even for adult males who can reach, a large percentage of men aren’t aware of their lack of targeting skills.  Plus, there are some early mornings when the device hasn’t fully… uh… unsheathed itself (picture here a sleeping turtle) before the draining of the bladder begins and a moistening of the rear tank, neighboring trash can and sink takes place before one gains full control of the spigot.  Sometimes the mirror and/or shower curtain, too.  On rare occasion, one might be so hung over they hold the other thumb and soak their pajamas.  No one I know, of course.  But it’s been rumored to have happened.  And while we men are still half asleep, we figure no one will really notice so we just flush and leave.

Also, most men aren’t aware of the coefficient of spray that occurs due to the nature of the plumbing and nozzle.  Even if you are skilled at aiming, the nature of the UES (urine expulsion system) causes some peripheral spray.  Whether it’s a delicate misting from the force of the liquid leaving the nozzle or ricocheting droplets from the sidewall of the toilet, there is some collateral spray.  Most men experience this the first time they use a men’s room urinal whilst wearing shorts.  Personally, I had no idea there was that much blow-back.   Most men would rather leave the household chores to the women, so guys, you have to understand their anger/disgust with us here.  If we’re going to spray a little onto the back of the bowl or sleepily wizz into the medicine cabinet and walk away as if nothing happened, there’s a good chance they might not be altogether happy with us.  So, to not make the cleaning chores for them any worse, women want men to sit down to urinate.  Understandable, yet difficult to achieve.

Here’s The Problem with Stupid Girl Toilets

First, men have to deal with the problem of another guy finding out that they’re sitting down to pee.  So women, if you can convince your man to perform this procedure in a most ladylike manner, you have to not brag to your friends as to your monumental triumph over his brutishness.  If he hears from his friends that their wives said, “Well, Jill told me that Jack sits down to pee!” he’s never going to do it again.  He’ll probably start peeing in the front yard before coming in the house in the evening to show his friends in the neighborhood that he pees wherever and however he wants.

But there is a bigger, more practical issue here.  A few paragraphs back, I said there were “…requirements of a man with regards to the toilet.”  As further ammunition for my argument that women don’t care about the needs of a man, I give you Stupid Girl Toilets.  And I’ll pause here and bet money that women don’t even know what I’m talking about!  Some women will have to really scrunch their foreheads and try to picture what I am describing here, but every man already knows.  A stupid girl toilet is the one with the round bowl.  Finally the plumbing industry came up with more oval-shaped, or elongated, toilet bowls.  Why?  Ladies?  Really?  Because those little round bowls don’t give a man any room into which to place his nozzle.

There’s no room!  You have to sort of scoot as far back as you can, then stuff the behemoth down there!  Plus there’s the other associated equipment that has to get jammed down there, too!  It’s not comfortable and is fraught with its own peril.  Not the least of which is if you get it down in there and it is still in sleepy turtle mode. True, it is tucked within the bowl, but it’s aiming horizontally!  And horizontal aim means the stream just shoots out the little space between the bowl and the seat and douses all of the magazines in the rack before control can be regained.  With the newer, oval bowls, the device and additional accoutrements can just naturally point down there and do the task for which it’s been designed.  No shoving, squeezing, stuffing… just plenty of room to go about its business.  I loves me an oval shaped bowl.

The reason I know so much about stupid girl toilets and their stupid round bowls is because, as I said to you at the beginning, I am a sensitive man of the ‘80s.  I try my best, when heeding the call in the middle of the night, to not disturb my girlfriend.  That’s what we sensitive men do.

One memorable night, I quietly rolled over in the dark, got up and crept, ever so stealthily, around the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom.  I softly pressed the door closed.   In consideration for any ambient light shining under the doorway, I didn’t turn on the switch and felt my way to the stupid girl toilet.  The light didn’t really matter since I was still, for all intents and purposes, asleep, and had my eyes closed anyway.  Since it was dark and even though I have perfect aim in light or dark, dusk or dawn, I continued being a sensitive male and I decided to have a seat.  Lowering myself, I sighed under my breath as I began to stuff Willie and the Poor Boys into the stupid round bowl of the stupid girl toilet.

Having in my past experienced the shot between the bowl and the seat and wiping out a row of National Geographic—publication years 1974-75—I have now learned to lean slightly forward so as to let the angle of my torso help with the direction sleepy little Willie was pointing; to assist him in naturally pointing downward.  Since I was still nearly asleep myself, I decided to rest my forearms on my legs just above my knees.  There.  That’s comfy.  While waiting for Willie to commence his duties, I felt my hair brush against something.  Oh!  That’s the hamper which, in this small bathroom, was less than a foot away.  I had leaned myself forward and my hanging head was almost touching it.  I might as well just rest my forehead on the hamper and let Wee Willie begin.

At some point in the night I became aware of a slight knocking.  I shook it off.  The knocking grew louder and was accompanied with, “Honey?  Are you OK?”  I wasn’t really sure where I was, but I soon realized it wasn’t the bed.  I bolted upright from my seated position and moved in an unspecific direction.  I knew I must be at the beach because of the sand under my feet.  I didn’t remember going to the beach…  As gracefully as I could due to the fact that my legs were tingling from having fallen asleep on the toilet, I lunged forward, banging one knee on the stupid girl toilet.  I hopped on one foot in the soft beach sand and then lowered my foot and wedged it into what must have been another beach-goer’s cooler.

While I tried to figure out who I was and why my legs were tingling, she opened the door and flipped on the switch.  I instinctively shielded my eyes from the explosion of light and was about to ask her where we were when my eyes adjusted to find me standing with one foot in the litter box and the other in the trashcan.  I thought I must look a little ridiculous standing there, naked with my feet splayed as they were in the two receptacles.  The ridiculousness was confirmed as, through narrowed eyes, I could see myself in the mirror.   I had only to squint a little bit to make out the word Rubbermaid pressed into the flesh across my forehead.

“Honey?  Everything OK?”

I straightened myself, gathering as much dignity as I could muster and walked past her muttering, “stupid girl toilets.”