A common method of maintaining our gender identity is by regularly moaning about those minor irritations each appears to possess. Why do men insist upon reciting the entire The Empire Strikes Back script over the top of the film? Why do women have to point out all your grey hairs then sadistically yank them out individually? And why do men persist with using unnatural looking hair dye?
The one that confounds me the most is the notorious toilet seat row. The endless whinging about us leaving it up. The tireless complaints of having to remember to lower it and avoid a potentially lethal incident.
Now, without getting too technical, the practicality is that one has to lower oneself on to the crapper. Heading in a downwardly motion and thus enabling the hand to pull down the seat in one swift, not uncomfortable, movement. Where the hell’s the stress involved? Do we complain that we’re forced to bend down, latently straining a vertebrae, grasp the seat then pull back up to a standing position, thus further injuring ourselves? Do you hear us whining about this quite clearly more strenuous procedure undertaken whenever we need a piss? At least we have the decency not to leave the seat down and piss all over it, however great the temptation.
In fact, it should be the responsibility of the woman to return the seat to its natural upright position after she’s done whatever ungodly thing it is that results in the room being cast in a choking haze of lavender spray. Does the concept of future rheumatism in our backs ever cross their minds? Or the unnerving dizzy spells brought on by the quick-fire penitent action? No. They’re too busy worrying about falling down the loo and getting washed out to sea. If the seat were meant to be permanently in its horizontal position, it would be glued to the rim.
We use the seat too. We don’t crap straight into the bowl. Not unless we’re off our tits and even then it’s down to pure laziness rather than a lack of awareness. And we’re more than capable of levering it up for a slash and down for a lethargic slash and a bit of a read. Perhaps women are just jealous of our diversity?
Is that it then? Are women simply lazy or envious or is it an expectancy of a world running to the beat of their drum? Perhaps chivalry has spoiled them? Holding a door open these days rarely receives a polite note of gratitude, not that we should only act purely for appreciation. But, you’re more likely to get a semblance of recognition for behaving considerately from another man. Possibly because we as a gender harbour a greater decorum or it could be because we fear some kind of violent reprisal? Either way, it keeps etiquette alive.
This is one gender related huff women really should let go. If they’d seen the interior of many a pub’s men’s loo, they would praise their boyfriend, flatmate, or whatever for a remarkable job of managing not to smear excrement across the back of the seat or wedging three rolls of paper into the u-bend while unscrewing the lock on the door and spitting all over the floor.
The one that confounds me the most is the notorious toilet seat row. The endless whinging about us leaving it up. The tireless complaints of having to remember to lower it and avoid a potentially lethal incident.
Now, without getting too technical, the practicality is that one has to lower oneself on to the crapper. Heading in a downwardly motion and thus enabling the hand to pull down the seat in one swift, not uncomfortable, movement. Where the hell’s the stress involved? Do we complain that we’re forced to bend down, latently straining a vertebrae, grasp the seat then pull back up to a standing position, thus further injuring ourselves? Do you hear us whining about this quite clearly more strenuous procedure undertaken whenever we need a piss? At least we have the decency not to leave the seat down and piss all over it, however great the temptation.
In fact, it should be the responsibility of the woman to return the seat to its natural upright position after she’s done whatever ungodly thing it is that results in the room being cast in a choking haze of lavender spray. Does the concept of future rheumatism in our backs ever cross their minds? Or the unnerving dizzy spells brought on by the quick-fire penitent action? No. They’re too busy worrying about falling down the loo and getting washed out to sea. If the seat were meant to be permanently in its horizontal position, it would be glued to the rim.
We use the seat too. We don’t crap straight into the bowl. Not unless we’re off our tits and even then it’s down to pure laziness rather than a lack of awareness. And we’re more than capable of levering it up for a slash and down for a lethargic slash and a bit of a read. Perhaps women are just jealous of our diversity?
Is that it then? Are women simply lazy or envious or is it an expectancy of a world running to the beat of their drum? Perhaps chivalry has spoiled them? Holding a door open these days rarely receives a polite note of gratitude, not that we should only act purely for appreciation. But, you’re more likely to get a semblance of recognition for behaving considerately from another man. Possibly because we as a gender harbour a greater decorum or it could be because we fear some kind of violent reprisal? Either way, it keeps etiquette alive.
This is one gender related huff women really should let go. If they’d seen the interior of many a pub’s men’s loo, they would praise their boyfriend, flatmate, or whatever for a remarkable job of managing not to smear excrement across the back of the seat or wedging three rolls of paper into the u-bend while unscrewing the lock on the door and spitting all over the floor.
