I have a question for the men of the world ...
WHY CAN’T YOU JUST PICK UP YOUR SHIT?!?
Is it some genetic disease that renders you unable to find your way to return any given item to its allocated resting place in your residence? Is this related to your aversion to asking for directions?
Let me get you started:
Mr Dishes; meet Mr Dishwasher. Dirty clothes; introducing Signor Laundry Hamper. Random scraps of “important” paper; shake hands with Monsieur Bin!
It’s not that difficult is it?
Why must I choose between living in a pig sty or developing a disfiguring condition from a life spent stooped over my floor in perpetual pick-up-and-put-away mode?
You know, overcoming this affliction might even help with that other male-related illness, Domestic Blindness ...
I will now stop, as this rant is well and truly locked in a steamy clinch with Cliche.
Next time I promise to address a more modern and less male bashing (c’mon – you love it!) topic such as tattoo etiquette or Wii porn.
Until then ... PICK UP