Category: Funny Business

Now that I have successfully transitioned from working a full-time job to being a (participation) trophy husband, I have taken on a much larger domestic role.

And believe it or not, I take great pride in keeping the bathrooms in our house sparkling clean. In fact – as weird as it sounds – it has become my favorite household task, one that I do almost every day and take very, very seriously.

I like to think of it as a domestic superpower and myself as a crime fighter.

Or maybe a grime fighter; I won’t quibble over labels.

And as long as you stay on top of the “facility situation” it never has to get disgusting, like when bathrooms start to look like what I call “gas station toilets.”

That description should be self-explanatory but, if not, imagine walking into what appears to be a crime scene that smells of urine, rotten opossum and desperation.

Throw in fecal matter that has been randomly distributed throughout the facility and a condom machine, and the picture is complete.

(It should be noted that some gas stations bathrooms are well-maintained and I salute those fearless souls who make it so. The worst ones are often the “Mom and Pop” variety found on secondary roads – the establishments where you have to ask an attendant for a key that’s attached to a large board with a “Keep On Truckin’” sticker on it).

The worst I’ve ever encountered was on a back road while I traveling from Greenville, South Carolina, to Augusta, Georgia.

I was low on gas and felt the need to get a delicious and nutritious bag of potato chips, and I came upon an old convenience store.

As is my custom, I always take the opportunity to make the bladder gladder on any travel stop, especially since my bladder is, apparently, the size of a peanut. So, after gassing up and securing chips, I asked the attendant where the restroom was.

“It’s out back,” he said. “But the lock don’t work.”

That was fine with me; all I was planning was a splash and go, anyway.

But once I pushed open the door, what I saw can never be unseen.

This bathroom looked as though it had – quite literally – never been cleaned.

The sheer smell was overwhelming, and it became obvious that over time dudes stopped even trying to aim when they peed.

As for what was in the toilet, the better question is, what was not?

If it could be expelled from a body, it had been expelled here, and over time the unholy union of various forms of human waste had created what I call Excreta Maxima – a sewage super villain.

I have a relatively strong stomach, but this triggered my gag reflex big-time and there was no way in hell I was going to venture any further into this house of horrors.

I ran to my car – I’m pretty sure I was crying – and as I drove away I vowed to never, ever allow any bathroom in any house I live in to be anything but pristine.

Just as Batman swore vengeance against all criminals and Spider-Man protects the “little guy,” I shall forever battle the forces of poo.

So if you ever come to my home and need to use the facilities, you’ll be treated to shiny fixtures, fresh-smelling towels and a chamber pot as clean as any you’ve ever seen.

This is my mission.

This is my promise.

I am … Toilet Man.

If you’re an animal lover like me, you know that critters aren’t like family – they are family.

But all families have issues, and since my day job is watching over our house beasts, it can be challenging.

As you might know, we have an 11-year old Sheltie named Charlie; two shelter cats, The Mighty Thor, God of Thunder (four) and Bane (18 months); and a rescue Chihuahua, Steve Rogers, Captain America. He’s also 18 months old.

Usually, it’s wonderful having four animals to hang with. There’s lots of belly rubs and skitches, and sometimes (many times, really) the company of a four-legged friend is the best company of all.

However, it’s not always sunshine and rainbows.

Sometimes it’s broken glasses and vomit.

To be fair, Charlie’s not much of a problem. He’s always been a low-key fellow and now that he’s getting on in years, he spends a lot of his time sprawled on the floor sleeping.

And since he’s a senior citizen in “human years,” he considers himself retired so other than yelling at the television and asking me if I’ve seen his glasses, he doesn’t exert a lot of energy.

He does find time, however, to raid the litter box which – as you might imagine – is disgusting. Of course it’s not disgusting to him, which makes it even more disgusting to me.

I try not to judge but, damn, that’s gross.

Watching out for Thor is normally a breeze. He’s very loving, and enjoys nothing more than curling up in my lap. But he’s also extremely skittish. If you sneeze, he runs away in a panic, only to be found later trembling in a corner while smoking a cigarette.

He is a fan of heights, though, so I have to keep my head on a swivel to make sure he doesn’t jump up on the dresser and knock things off.

When I hear the sound of a broken glass in the middle of the night, I can blame it on him.

Also when I smell smoke, I know Thor is nervous and has fired one up.

Bane is a bit more high maintenance. He’s a shredder and plunderer, and I have a hard time preventing him from doing either.

We have several pieces of wicker furniture that used to look really nice, but now appear to have gone through a wood chipper. Bane rips them to shit with his claws, even though I ask him nicely to stop.

Speaking of wood, we have a tree branch couch on the back porch that Bane has partly destroyed with his claws. The legs look like someone has taken a pocket knife and begun the process of whittling.

In fact, that could very well be what’s happening.

Bane has recently become quite adept at opening cabinets and drawers, and he’s particularly fond of the drawer where we keep our knives.

That’s troubling.

While it could help explain the whittling activity on the couch, I’m convinced when the animals rise up and rule the world, knife-wielding cats will lead the way.

I think Bane loves me and he’s very affectionate, but his first loyalty lies with the revolution.

And he vomits … all cats enjoy barfing.

Steve, on the other hand – even though I love him dearly – drives me out of my freakin’ mind.

He’s four pounds of bulbous-eyed fury.

All Chihuahuas are “yappy,” but I know of none who unleash shrill, blood-curdling barks with the volume and frequency of Steve.

If he sees someone walk in front of the house, he lets loose a “dog scream” and charges the window – hair on his back raised and snarling like a hound of hell.

When I look at him sternly and say, “Bad dog!” he hunkers down and mutters under his breath.

One time he told me to kiss his ass and shot me the bird.

Worse, he has a tendency to attack the other animals.

It’s not much of an issue with Bane; they’re BFFs, and it’s fairly obvious they’re play-fighting.

But he menaces Thor by charging at him – causing the poor cat to retreat to a closet (and light up). Thor swatted him once so Steve has learned not to physically assault him anymore, but he still takes advantage of the kitty’s nervous nature.

And poor Charlie … this was a dog who I never heard growl until Steve came along. Now he has no choice because Steve – unprompted – will sometimes leap from the couch and bite Chuck’s butt region.

Charlie has so much hair it doesn’t hurt, but I would assume there’s a certain amount of indignity in having a small dog trying to chew his way to your arse.

I’d growl, too, if it happened to me.

Steve is also a chewer. He’s already destroyed many of his toys, and if you leave him unattended for just a few minutes you’ll find a stuffed duck unceremoniously unstuffed.

Otherwise, he jumps and runs and snorts, and just when you think he’s finally wound down, he jumps and runs and snorts some more.

Fortunately when the weekend comes Mary is home, and the critters are usually on their best behavior then. They tend to glom on to mama, which affords me a respite from cat litter snacking, knives, second hand smoke and small dog insults.

Yet the moment she walks out the door on Monday morning, the circus begins anew.

So yes, wrangling a houseful of animals can be quite a job.

But you know what?

It’s still the best job I ever had.

The mainstream media underplayed a huge story last week – one that hits pretty close to home for me.

Seems a 34-year-old Wisconsin man took an axe to his TV, living room and car because he thought his wife damaged his action figures.

Was that reaction a bit extreme?

That depends.

How valuable were the action figures in question?

I ask because they weren’t identified in the story, and the dude might’ve had a really cool collection of figures that could be difficult (if not impossible) to replace.

For example, back in the mid-1960s Hasbro introduced G.I. Joes featuring what was billed as “lifelike hair and beard.”

Now, unless your life included fiberglass hair, this was a case of false advertising. Nonetheless, G.I. Joes of various skin and hair colors were sold, and over a two-year period I used my allowance to purchase them all.

One, however, proved to be quite elusive; a G.I. Joe with lifelike hair but no beard.

I had seen it in a television commercial but never in a store, and for months I looked high and low for this almost mythical G.I. Joe. Obviously, options were limited because back in the 1960s, there was no Internet – and the only way to travel through time and purchase them on eBay was to be an English person lucky enough to have a police box land in his or her yard.*

*This is a “Doctor Who” joke. Please insert piped-in laughter.

But finally – at long last – I was wandering through a Kmart while my mom was looking for go-go boots and an ironing board and there he was – a clean-shaven G.I. Joe.

I think I was 8, and I’m not sure I had ever been that excited. I had a warm, tingling sensation I hadn’t felt since my bed-wetting days, and rushed to grab him off the shelf.

After I gave the nice person at the counter all my money, I remember performing a festive dance right there in the store.

I called it the “G.I. Joe With Lifelike Hair But No Beard Dance.”

It was spectacular.

Afterwards, I couldn’t wait to get home and have clean cut G.I. Joe meet the rest of my “fighting men from head to toe.”

What adventures they’d have together!

(I should probably note at this point that even though these action figures were marketed as “soldiers,” I rarely used them in war games. Sometimes they’d work for a private sector company fighting criminals and/or monsters, and one time they ran a car dealership. That playscape didn’t last too long because basically all they did was stand around smoking cigarettes and filling out paperwork. The best part was cupping my hands over my mouth and saying. “G.I. Joe … please come to the sales department. G.I. Joe … you’re wanted in sales.”)

Anyway, these truly were my prized possessions, and I always made sure to clean them up before carefully placing them in their toy box each night.

Now, back to this guy in Wisconsin.

I’m not saying I approve of his actions, but I can certainly understand them.

I don’t know how I would’ve reacted if my wife had harmed my G.I. Joes. Of course at age 8 I was unmarried (although I did live in the Deep South so, technically, I probably could’ve made it happen if I’d been ready to settle down).

Sadly, once I stopped playing with my G.I. Joes, I didn’t have sense enough to put them in storage in hopes of them one day becoming collector’s items. I think I actually donated them to a toy drive.

And I was in my 40s, so I probably should’ve known better.

However, I still fancy myself as a collector, although now my passion is McFarlane sports figures.

I have NFL, NHL and MLB players – I even have three custom Canadian Football League figures and several from defunct leagues.

Needless to say, I don’t play with them because they’re far too valuable. Plus none of them are poseable, and I don’t really have enough space in my playroom.

But what would happen if I thought my wife damaged them?

I really don’t think she would and, regardless, I certainly wouldn’t take an axe to our home and car.

I mean, we don’t even own an axe.