OK, ladies, what's your frickin problem?

or a cinci bowtie.

 

Said people are also spending time sculpting their full-time writing careers while balancing their job, working out, networking and eating well.

 

when do they find time to get laid? maybe this is mikey's problem.

 

La-de-fucking-dah. Aren't you special.

 

You have to have something to do on your days off, right? Time management Mr. Petty, time management.

 

No, it's not. Mikey's got many problems, but spending too much time in the gym isn't one of them.

 

It's a lot harder than you think. As Doc said, sometimes you get a two-streamer. Those days are fucking awful. I'm a streaky pisser. Sometimes I'm good, about a 98-percent accurate -- no matter how well you're aiming, there's always going to be drippage on the seat. Other times, I'm like Christ fucking Dudley on the free-throw line: I never really know where the piss is going to land; sometimes it's a swish, other times it rattles around the rim and in, and other times, I'm lucky if I hit backboard.

 

As an aside, we might have a winner in the WORST. JOB. EVER. contest.

 

Fair enough, Mike. I guess all I ask in that case is that you wipe off the fucking seat when you're done.

And by "you" I mean whatever unfortunate man is dating me at the time.

 

My old college roommate Kevin was a drinker. A legit drinker, the kind that warrants his own poorly-shot documentary. Multiple times Kevin pissed on his laundry basket in the middle of the night while shitfaced. This requires the same amount of effort to get up, find the toilet, and take a piss. But Kevin would be so shitfaced, he’d put that same effort instead into getting up, walking to the closet, opening the closet, and then pissing all over his own clothing. It was uncanny, really.

Another time, Kevin passed out in the common room of our dorm. During the course of the night, a group of basketball players across the hall decided to test out how drunk Kevin was. They began piling furniture on top of him. First a table. Then a chair. Then a whole sofa. And then basically anything else they could find within a 50-foot radius. Soon the stack of furniture on top of Kevin reached the ceiling. But he didn’t wake up until the morning. And what did he say when he woke up? “Oh, fuck. Not again.” That, folks, is a level of drunkenness I can only hope to aspire to.

But wait, we aren’t through just yet. One time Kevin brought over a friend from Ireland to stay in our dorm room. The kid came from a family of serious Irish drunks, the kind that eventually spawn a Kennedy. So we’re all out getting shitfaced that night while the Irish kid regales us with stories about his drunken family, including the time, as a young boy sleeping on the couch, he was traumatized when his own uncle took a piss all over him at 3AM after a night out at the pub. Imagine that. You’re just a little kid, with no grasp of what alcohol is or what it does to people, when a member of your own family uses you for his own personal stadium trough. Brutal, eh?

Well, when we got back from the bar that very same night, Kevin woke up shitfaced at 3AM, walked over to the Irish kid (who was sleeping on our couch), whipped out his dick, and then pissed all over him. That’s my Kevin: seizing the moment to recreate a poor friend’s traumatic childhood in spectacular fashion. Kevin didn’t even do it on purpose, which makes the story all the more entertaining.

Later on, when Mrs. Drew started living with me in Manhattan, Kevin came and visited for a night. At 4AM, Mrs. Drew woke me up.

“Drew, get up. Your friend just pissed on the floor.”

And, true to form, he had. He had tried to get to the bathroom but had failed, instead passing out in the hallway, with his pants down around his ankles, his balls sticking out behind his legs in traditional fruit-basket formation, in a puddle of his own piss. It was the last time Kevin was allowed to visit the apartment, strictly by Mrs. Drew’s extremely reasonable orders. The next time we saw Kevin was at our wedding, when he had to be sent home after showing up bombed and feeling up my friend’s cousin. I expected nothing less of the man. A true original.

From Big Daddy Drew at fatherknowsshit.blogspot.com

 

Trust me, I always wipe the seat, the lid, the bowl and the surrounding areas -- floor, tub, counters, mirrors, scale, my bedroom door. I'm a perfect gentleman.

 

It's amazing, isn't it? When a man goes to the bathroom, there's a simple three-step process:

1) Look at toilet.

2) Ascertain whether the current toilet seat configuration is appropriate for what you are about to do.

3) If not, put the toilet seat into the appropriate configuration.

If we can do this, why shouldn't they? It just doesn't seem that difficult.