Seriously, think about it. When was the last time anyone actually taught you how to do it? You were like, what, four? I mean, I don't remember much from when I was four, but I can pretty much guarantee that 'attentive listener' and 'stickler for detail' weren't phrases that were used to describe me during that period.
So, basically, I learned everything I needed to about fanny sanitization in 1969. From that point on, I've been on my own. Super. Yeah, I'm sure I'm doing it right.
And then, I go and have kids and I'm supposed to teach them how to do it. Sure, I'm still showing Miss O the ropes, but Mr. Z is on his own. That's it. He's learned all there is to know from his restroom Mr. Miyagi. He'll be waxing on and waxing off wrong for the rest of his life. Poor kid.
It's like some sick game of 'Operator,' but the stakes are so much higher. Instead of "No, I said 'Zip-a-dee-doo-dah' not 'Plippety-Poobah," it's more like, "No, I said 'wipe the paper across your bum,' not 'stick the empty cardboard tube up your anus.'"
No wonder the stalls in public bathrooms are like Fort Knox. Everyone's wiping themselves like a bunch of wild orangutans -- toilet paper flying around, people splashing bowl water up their cracks. It's mayhem in there.
You know, maybe if they made the walls of the stalls out of glass, we could actually learn a thing or two from our more evolved neighbors. It would be like, "Hey, buddy. Where'd you learn that fancy move? You don't mind if I use that myself, do you? No? Hey, thanks for the tip!"
But no, we're left to go it alone, armed only with instructions that were given to us back when we were still getting the crusts cut off of our sandwiches.
What kind of a sick species are we?
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