Don’t be an asshole.

Toronto, Ontario, 2016

I’m considering writing a series as a way to play with/expand upon my skills in the realm of comedy, the digital word, and the wisdom that can only be derived from facing death square in the eyes. I shall call it “advice for the end of the world”. 

It’s simple. It’s what your future, end-of-the-world self would want to know or share, only now.

Yes, yes, you’re welcome. Don’t come rushing the screen all too fast. I can’t take the web traffic.

[Side note: I’m feeling a bit of creative commitment phobia creeping up, so we may not even get past this post. But whatever. It was fun while it lasted. You felt the rush, I felt the rush. It’s like we committed or something.] 

So where are we starting? 

Here: Don’t be an asshole. 

Assholes come in all different forms, don’t be mistaken. 

So let’s begin with the only obvious place one can start. 

The Phantom Toilet Seat Man. 

He’s the uninvited bathroom guest we women endure as part of being the head of the human food chain. 

Yes. The PTSM. 

He leaves the toilet seat up in the middle of the night with no warning. Every house has one and yet there’s no alarm for him. 

He’s a silent killer…

Essentially a domesticated Yeti ravaging your indoor plumbing and pissing all over your toilet. 

Is this the deal we signed as women, because fuck; my dog has better aim than he does. 

Is he secretly friends with Grandma, I wonder? Because who else but the semi-senile would let this guy into our home? Unlike Grandma or the Tooth Fairy, his tutu doesn’t twirl and he doesn’t leave you money under your pillow. 

No folks. 

He just urinates in and on your toilet, like a homeless god whose been given permission to break and enter into your home. 

You glide your way into the bathroom like a fairy of the night, half asleep and anticipating the comfort of the bathroom mat beneath your feet, unaware that you’re soon to meet your watery grave. As you lower yourself to sit on this porcelain throne, your butt hovers just low enough to realize you’ve gone too far. 

Your eyes grow wide. 

You begin to wave your hands frantically, grabbing at the air around you, a single tear streaming down your face. 

It’s too late. 

There’s no going back. 

And boom. 

There you are. Sitting on and in the toilet, water and man fluids lubricating your rear. 

He was there, this you know. 

“Asshole,” you mumble in a sigh of defeat. 

“The Toilet Man…"