The Bear came down from Gilbert

She was looking for a bowl to steal.

Well, it’s not quite a Charlie Daniels song — steal is a little extreme.  She wanted to replace the toliets in the Tucson man cave.  She likes replacing appliances.

I definitely needed a new seat.  I don’t know what chemicals you have to excrete to eat enamel, but apparently Dos Equis Amber, Third-World chicken wings, and $2 pizza from Old Chicago have them all.

She goes to Lowes.  Never going to Trump-supporting Home Depot.  She takes pictures of the bolts with a tape measure.

Did you know there are 10-inch or 12-inch toliets?  Only a dude with a small, small penis (we are all thinking of you, Josh) comes up with these kinds of labels.

You measure from the wall to the head of the bolts that fasten the toliet base.  Our toilets are both not quite 11-inches from the wall.

Lowe’s guy assures The Bear, that means they are 12-inch toliets.  “Anything over 10, is 12-inches,” he said.

That’s how men measure, ladies…

I came home from work and there were two 100-pound boxes that we had to unload from her car.  One new 12-inch toliet per bathroom.

“Just so you know,” The Bear said.  “I’m going to be the first one to take a shit in one of those toliets…”

32 years together. We have shared a lot.  But this was a first for a deep desire for where we want to secretly shit.  I’m telling you, bears are just fucking unpredictable. (I guess they do more than shit in the woods).

I could have easily turned this into a competition.  I know I can out-shit her any day of the week.  But I needed some points.  It’s rare for any man to have an opportunity to make his woman’s fantasy come true…

“The pleasure will be all yours,” I said with a fake little bow and wave.

A week later she was back in Tucson, and Lowe’s was coming to install the toliets.

Same Old Shit

Surprise — 11-inches is a 10-inch toliet.  They had to take the 12-inchers back. Another 100-pound box to unload.  Ohh, and the guest room toliet won’t fit at all — there’s a little fucking shelf above the toliet and you have to buy a special “short tank” for $300.

Guests will be using the 35-year-old short-tank. The Bear and I get the new one.

Lowe’s was back the next day. They were coming at noon.  But the Bear had to leave by 2.   I figured there is no way she could hit that new toliet in a 1-hour window.  I win… again.

Like most women of a certain age, it can be days (weeks?) between shits.  What are the odds she would have one locked and loaded in the chamber?

I get this text at 5:45 p.m.

“I made it home.”

“Your toliet is in… don’t touch caulk at the base on the floor for 24 hours. You can use the toliet… but you won’t be the first.”

Jesus… no wonder she was walking funny.  How long can she hold it?  Call the Guiness Book of World Records — we have a new winner.

When I got home Friday night, I start asking questions like an ESPN locker room reporter.

“How did you manage to be the first to shit in that bowl?”

“I was really worried,” she said.  “I hadn’t been feeling it all day.  I knew the clock was against me. But as soon as they finished and left, I saw my opportunity.  A lane opened up, and I took it.”

A weaker-minded man, might believe this is a good case for proof of a God.  You pray for a poop, and he delivers right on time.  Maybe we should all dip our fingers in the holy tank water and cross ourselves to honor the memory of this moment?

In a fair and just world, wouldn’t the First Shit be as significant as the Last Supper…  I would rather see Leonardo’s painting of the former than the latter. The ending to that story is so depressing with the suffering for all mankind, and the scourging, and the cruxification…

Now, after 32 years of silence on the subject,  I know The Bear would too.  But First Shit won’t fly.  No museum is going to spend millions on Leonardo’s First Shit.

But,  Christening the Bowl is something we could market…