My Mrs. is a reader.
She has subscriptions to several magazines—Time and Businessweek among them—and before bed she likes to strengthen her mind by keeping tabs on the world around her. Fortunately, she is not above reading “junk,” which keeps her from becoming too brainy and therefore difficult to relate to.
(As I am functionally retarded, it’s problematic enough when we try and converse. If she gets any smarter (or I become somehow stupider), she may have to begin telling her daily tales to our animals, as they will probably have more to offer her in way of reciprocity.)
That backstory said, a little while ago my better half read an article that described (in full detail) how modern man actually poops “incorrectly.” Our ancestors used to squat, and when doing so aligned our exit hole with the innards leading to it, just like the stars do when in the middle of a Moronic Harmonic Convergence. Now that we sit on toilets, however, our intestines no longer have the correct path they so desire in order to make our bowels empty in the way in which they were designed.
Fortunately, all hope was not lost. The article pointed out that if we wanted to release our waste like the generations (way) before us, all that was needed was a repositioning of the legs. If a little elevation could take place, then our bodies would reward us by making the “plop-plop but no fizz-fizz” time a breeze.
Thus, the next morning, I awoke to find this scene awaiting me.
Now I can rest my laptop on my knees and Facebook in here. Who would be the wiser?
My wife.
I think I’ll keep her.