During yesterday’s hot and fresh NFL action (now with 400% more safeties, apparently), a fan brought a sign to the Pats-Bills game that made its rounds on the Internet. It was an insult of unmitigated brilliance, its efficacy surpassed only by its incisiveness.
Yes, Tom Brady, the adult male who regularly has sex with a supermodel in his California mansion that has a fucking moat—and who excels at the most violent game America has ever known—is a chick. Because when the urge to urinate hits, he places his ass cheeks on a toilet seat.
I don’t know dick about TB’s bathroom habits, but I bet he does sit down to pee on Monday morning. First off, he probably pays for heated toilet seats (and why squander any chance to use those?) but also because every single muscle in his legs have recently been drilled by polycarbonate plastic helmets launched into him with hundreds of pounds of force. I bet every NFL player sits down to pee. But you know, you—dude in the stands worried about how this $9 beer will affect his checking account—are more man.
There is nothing wrong with sitting down to pee. Nothing.
I sit down to pee. I sit down to pee all the fucking time. And it’s as effeminate as eating raw bison while shooting Jason Statham in the face.
Can someone tell me how it’s SO GAY? Is it because that’s how a woman pees and she pees that way because she doesn’t have a dick? Do I, transitively then, not have a penis? Give me one second to check.
Oh, hey, dick. There you are, having not magically disappeared when I sat on the toilet and tinkled. That’s amazing of you, penis. You must be a special one—one that doesn’t automatically evaporate simply because a dude drinking Bud Light Platinum thinks it should.
Let’s do a thought experiment: A guy hands you two bottles of whiskey. “Here are two bottles of whiskey,” he says. “They both taste really good.”
That’s the end of the exercise, because there isn’t an actual question to ask. Standing up to pee is wonderful. When I’m camping and need to take a leak, I piss on a tree without having to remove my pants. When I’m in a Porta Potty that smells like a vagrant rubbed himself with sour cream, I stand up. In my house, too. It’s fun.
But so is sitting down. When I’m extremely hungover and my head is throbbing and I’m feeling nauseous? Why the fuck would I stand up? Sorry ten thousand years of stupidly-reinforced stereotypes. Not gonna stand in my way. Or what about when I’m reading a particularly enthralling article on my Samsung? Have you ever held a smartphone up while standing at a urinal? I’m not sure what you look like, but a person who contributes productively to society is not it. And what about when you aren’t sure if you have to shit? Do you just hope it will only be a fart? No. You plop your ass on the toilet. Tell me about that time no crap came out.
Were you suddenly “gay?” No. And you can’t—won’t—catch chick-itis. You won’t immediately start baking scones and ordering bellinis.
You’ll still be a dude. Just one who isn’t stuck in the 1950s. Which is a good thing.