Some Things Men Just Do Better

My brother-in-law came by two weeks ago and powerwashed the sidewalk and driveway.  I think it took him about four hours.This must have shamed the lesbian couple across the street.  They had their very own power washer in operation at ten o’clock.  They were still at it at four o’clock, the job wasn’t half done. They are back at it today.

I know that I am going to set off a firestorm of criticism when I point out one guy did the same job in less time that two lesbians.

This isn’t about being handy around the house, my brother-in-law’s do-it-yourself strengths are decidedly not technical in nature. He seems to be equally matched with the lesbians, when it comes to yard work.  They spent about the same amount of time tinkering with the engine, putting gas in it and the trying to restart it.

It was while I watching them at work with the pressure washer hose that I identified the problem. My brother-in-law was much more efficient, he was economical in his movements, he demonstrated a command of the wand that could only be approximated by the lesbians.

Then in a eureka moment it struck me! It was the “Y” chromosome.  Try as they might, the lesbians could never hope to duplicate my brother-in-law’s command of the wand. They lacked the essential “Y” chromosome and the whole Zen thing that goes with it.

When little boys discovered that they could piss standing up, urination stopped being merely a bodily function and rose to the level of a skill presenting its own set of challenges and rewards. From the sound and fury of that first morning leak to the last one at night and everywhere in between, boys and men faced challenges and triumphs.

At first the challenges were minor, maintaining a firm enough hold to overcome back pressure and aiming. The closest girls ever got was taming an untended garden hose. Boys however, soon understood the power and destructive force of a fully pressurized penis uncontrolled, a wet toilet seat and puddles on the floor.

My theory is dads ought to take over their son’s urination training.  It would be over in one session.  Instead of sitting junior on a potty, take him out in the backyard, stand him up and show him how to pee on things. Once the message takes, the lesson is done and junior will never pee his pants again. He may not be housebroken, but one challenge at a time.

Girls never experience the joy of chasing a cigarette butt around the toilet bowl or the sheer destructive power of a stream of pee directed upon a stray turd and watching it disintegrate.

By the time a boy reached ten he was putting his newly learned Palmer Handwriting Method to use by writing his name in the snow.  Then there were competitions with his peers, who could pee the furthest, or from the highest height.

In high school there was stealth peeing, how long could you pee on your teammate’s leg before he noticed.  Standing on an overpass waiting for a convertible to come by, was always popular.

I knew a narc who investigated airplane drug smugglers. Every plane that he pissed on either crashed or resulted in a capture.  The NTSB never broke wise.

The end result is, when you put a pressure washing wand in a guys hand, tell him to hold it at waist level and hold on, the effect is mesmerising. A seemingly never ending stream with unlimited power, an object to aim at and a task to be accomplished, within thirty seconds they are in the groove. They are doing what they were born to do, hose something down. The lesbians never had a chance.