We need a new toilet seat.
No amount of bleach can undo what two boys can do to a toilet seat. I don’t understand what voodoo it takes to totally miss the toilet, but somehow drench the seat.
My office is next to the bathroom, so every time they go, I have to yell “Lift the seat! STOP! Flush! Come back and wash your hands! Yes, you have to. I don’t care what you’re watching. I don’t want our entire family to die of Ebola because you were too busy to wash your hands.”
To get rid of the old seat, I’ll need two priests, a rooster, and the blood of a virgin. The last one burned for 8 days and opened a portal to a world where the dead roam the earth, moaning and screaming and using envelopes full of coupons in the express lane at the grocery store.
The moral of this story is this: don’t have children, and if you do, make sure they’re not boys. And if they’re boys, build them a fenced area in the backyard with some straw and a shelter until they’re 18.
