Today’s post-Thanksgiving offering is toilet humor, though I can’t guarantee the humor.
I’m a man of few skills. I can juggle in such a way as to entertain people under the age of 8, and I make the fluffiest scrambled eggs on the planet.
Under the right conditions, I can perform aerial ballet with a two-string stunt kite.
I’m a championship watcher of television, who can sit for hour upon hour, channel upon channel, show upon show. Trust me: It’s not as easy as I make it look.
It also should be noted that I’m a top-of-the-line bathroom cleaner.
As a kid, I got custody of my own bathroom. It was a sweet setup, even though it didn’t come with maid service.
Every six months, whether the bathroom needed it or not, I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed until my knuckles bled and cleaning fumes burned the tiny hairs in my nose.
That experience came in handy in college. My roommate had an aversion to bathroom work. He cleaned most of our apartment, allowing me to practice my television-watching skills, as long as I took care of the toilet.
I couldn’t get away with my old six-month schedule, but it was a good trade, except for one experience that we won’t discuss here. You might be eating breakfast.
Life goes on and I became a better juggler, which was crucial for getting a wife.
I wasn’t as good then as I am now and could entertain only 5-year-olds and younger, but it still sent the signal that I was “baby ready,” even if, in reality, I was nowhere near ready. (Has anyone ever been ready?)
Throughout our married life, I’ve had bathroom duty, which makes sense.
She cleaned the bathroom once, and let me just say, her knuckles didn’t bleed and her nose hairs survived the experience. Talk about phoning it in.
I don’t mind telling you how disappointed I was in her, but I don’t want to rub it in because we both bring different strengths and weaknesses to the marriage.
She can’t juggle, either, but her scrambled eggs are passable, and she’s been known to make that two-string kite dance across the sky for brief spurts of time.
My high-quality bathroom skills and her lack of such did cause some relationship problems. No, I didn’t balk at doing the work. I’ve trained for this job and it is mine.
After proving she was no master of the toilet-cleaning arts, she kept making suggestions about what cleaning products I should use.
“Comet. Pine-Sol. Tilex. Windex,” I told her. “These are my tools.”
“Yeah, but …”
“’But, but, but.’ I’ll hear no more about it, woman.”
We didn’t talk for a while after that, but you know our bathroom shined like the showroom of a crystal glass factory.
M. Scott Morris is a Daily Journal feature writer. Contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org or (662) 678-1589.