Fixed and Broken.

Sometimes it's hard to be a man.

My toilet is beating me in the tough-guy-of-the-house game. Up until the last few days I was well ahead of the game. I mean, normally I do nothing whatsoever so there was no real proof that I was a crap man but over the last few days I have stupidly decided to prove that I am brilliant at being male. As you know, that means fixing things. Fixing things that I have broken.

Early on I surprised myself at how easy it was to fix things. I fixed two sets of drawers that I had broken about three years ago and then my bedroom door that I had broken two weeks ago. I fixed them all by myself without ANY HELP. I even went to B&Q like a real man to get the stuff I needed. Stuff like woodfiller (whatever that is) and WD40. I've never bought WD40 before in my life and it felt great. It was like I'd grown a brand new cock. Of course, that was nothing compared to the feeling that I got from turning to a grown man in an apron and saying "Do you have a pair of running butts, please?" He did and, after I paid him money, he gave them to me and thanked me. That is the power you have when you finally become a MAN.

I felt 8 feet tall walking out of B&Q on Saturday. I had a bag filled with things that fix other things and I walked with a swagger that shouted I GET THINGS DONE. People stepped out of my way because they all recognised a man with a mission when they see one. Just a man with his tools, listening to A Little Night Music, on his way to put (household) wrongs to right.

The drawers and the bedroom door had been tamed, now to take on the toilet seat.

The toilet seat was very unique in my house. It's the only thing here that wasn't broken by me. But like everything in my house I had just left it for months and did nothing about it. I spent months going to the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat, falling off, getting up again, doing a bit of business, falling off, tweeting, falling off, finish business, falling off, more tweeting, make wipey and leaving. Well, no more. That may have been how they went to the toilet in Victorian times but it was time for me to move on. I would take what's left of the seat from the toilet and replace it with a brand new seat. One that wasn't all smashed to bits. One that didn't push you to the floor when you sat down. One that showed you a bit of respect.

I had no idea what I was letting myself in for.

I'm on Day 3 of trying to unscrew that bastarding bastard toilet seat bastard from my toilet and it refuses to budge. The screw is corroded, due to my manly freeform style of urinating, and it has become a solid, rigid, going-nowhere bastard. It has laughed at WD40, Tabasco Sauce, Lemon Juice, pliers and my weak, weak wrists. It is completely stubborn and only makes a "Eeeeeeeeeee" noise when I use every ounce of my strength on it. "Eeeeeeeeeee". "Eeeeeeeeeeee". "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" like the laughter of pure evil.

This has to be fixed today. 3 days is too long to spend on the removal and replacement of a toilet seat. My brand new cock is shrivelling up and coughing.

There was a time when Toilet was my target of mockery in this blog. I don't like it when toilet laughs back.

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