Special Force: Toilet Seat Down

"John! You left the seat up again!"

"Of course I did."

"Why?"

“I don’t want to touch that germy toilet.”

"Wait. Didn't you make contact putting it up?"

"That's different. I washed my hands after."

"Can’t you wash them after you put it back down?"

SILENCE

I’m pretty sure that the guys who leave toilet seats up don’t appreciate the fact that we have to regularly scrub away all traces of their using them. Even with industrial strength gloves and a two-foot-handled brush, it’s a disgusting task.

Once, a boyfriend asked me: “Why do I have to put it down? Equality means women should have to put it up.”

“Here’s your equality, ” I answered, handing him the cleaner and a brush. He refused, and continued to leave the seat up, while I fantasized about killing him for money.

Some people have a calling to volunteer at soup kitchens or help the elderly cross the street.  I learned that my calling was to be the special force that evens the score on toilet seat position. Special Force: Toilet Seat Down. And I do this for all women, not just myself.

Like many such awakenings, I realized my new spiritual mission while on the golf course. And, it was the same course where Trump did his first comb over, after he looked in the men’s room mirror and saw:

A DIFFERENT KIND OF WATERBOARDING

A. A tiny row of really smart women growing on his head.

B.  Mini illegal immigrants jumping over a fence on his part.

C.  Teensy hair-pulling terrorists being tortured insufficiently.


The day of my avocation, my sister and I had been golfing for hours and regularly quaffing water, so we wouldn’t get dehydrated*. Finally, a bathroom appeared, but it was occupied, and there were three other women waiting in line, all tapping their toes and counting pine needles to divert them from having an accident. I looked over at the men’s room. The symbol on the door wasn’t wearing a triangle and neither was I, so I went in. That’s fair.

Well, it didn't smell good in there, as you might imagine. There was a urinal, with a strange round disc in it. I understand these are called urinal cakes. I think they smell like mothballs so drunk guys using the bathroom literally don’t eat them. There was a toilet too, reasonably clean, with the seat up.

 Grabbing a paper towel, I lowered the seat and attempted to go without actually sitting on it, because I was raised to pee only if it was absolutely necessary, and I was never to really touch the seat. After, I momentarily struggled with the feeling that I should put the seat back up, to be considerate of the next user.

That’s when the room went dark. Suddenly, a faint light appeared, accompanied by a rush of fresh air. As the light got brighter, there appeared a fairly hairy and hefty woman (with wings!) pushing open the window.

“God, it stinks in here!” she said.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Uh, the wings?”
 “Angels aren't supposed to be fat and have chin hairs,” I told her.
“It’s my job to make you feel better about yourself,” she answered.
“Oh.”

The angel told me that I had been selected to rebalance the toilet seat universe. From now on, she told me, I was to enter men’s rooms everywhere and put the seats DOWN.
“What?” I was almost speechless with disappointment. This was my special purpose?
“Every day, millions of women are praying they don’t kill some guy who left the seat up, so it’s an important job,” she explained.
“More important than being rich and famous?”
“You’re not thin enough for that.”
“Oh.”
She faded away, winking, and stroking a line of wiry hair on her jaw, which made me reach up and do the same, but only after I washed my hands.

Known the world over as restroom deserts, golf courses became my specialty. Soon, I was sneaking into men's rooms all over the state, gleefully dropping the seats down, one by one.
The first time I got caught, I walked out, and almost collided with a beefy, red-faced guy wearing ridiculous plaid pants, with a spreading dark spot along the leg.
“You made me spill my beer!” he yelled.
“Sorry," I mumbled, laughing inwardly at his euphemism.

A few holes later, the golf course ranger pulled us over on the cart path, and said, "I'm sorry, but I have to ask you ladies to stop using the men's room. We're getting complaints.”
"I’m the one that did it,” I said. “I’ve been getting a little confused lately."
"She has early onset dementia,” my sister whispered, “sometimes it's hard to keep an eye on her."
"ANOTHER HOLE-IN-ONE!" I shouted, for believability, while he sped off looking scared.

I may have started with free standing bathrooms on golf courses, but by the end, I was slamming down seats in men's rooms everywhere. I used to be happy with just one stall, but then I started craving the two and three stall models you find in hospitals and restaurants.

Never able to replicate the first high I got with my seat flipping, I had to think bigger, so I picked up rubber gloves, a bucket, a ‘closed for cleaning’ sign, and headed to the airport.
"All clean!" I’d chirp at the men waiting in line innocently for their now toilet-seat-down thrones.

Not only have I saved countless lives, but also as a toilet seat mastermind, I have the foolproof method for never getting caught. After all, I'm pretending to clean guy's toilets. They never think they're dirty.  

*On the other hand, I weigh less when dehydrated.