Leave it to the lusty Swiss to create carnal quickies on the run. Drive-in sex boxes have been installed in Zurich. Apparently, their public was perturbed about prostitutes. They were sick of seeing them strut their stuff on the streets. Their innovative idea was to build boxes to facilitate coital connections. The drive-in slots will be on a “first-come basis.” Not only will it give copulating couples privacy, it’ll keep the sluts outta the suburbs.
Although prostitution is legal in Switzerland, they’re trying to control the criminal aspects of amorous antics. I think that it’s an modern concept, however, couples need nourishment too. It’s food for fornicating, ’cause erotic encounters burn calories. Maybe McDonald’s could create a unique beverage. I’d love to come up with an appropriate name. I think something along the lines of: “Jack Off in the Box,” “Drive-In Diddling,” or “Dr. Pecker.” The Swiss say “sex sells.” So add a “Big Bang Burger,” with a carton of condomints, and everyone will be satisfied.
I just went to the restroom at a local coffee cafe, and I was forced to put the toilet lid down. Again. I’ve had it. I’m so sick of doing men’s dirty work for them that I’m ready to revolt. What is it with you guys?! How much effort could it take to put the damn lid down? You had the strength to lift it up.
Maybe it’s simply a matter of gender miscommunication. So I’ll give you guys the benefit of the doubt. I’ll assume that your inconsideration is due to external influences, like: your toilet training was interrupted, you have more important matters on your mind, or you’re too busy writing your phone number on the wall. But whatever the case may be, the end results are both annoying and irritating. To millions of women not just me.
If we can put a man on the Moon, why can’t that man put the lid down? (Fortunately, astronauts don’t have to worry about that issue.) It’s not that difficult. All you have to do is shake and zip, while your other hand is lowering the lid. It’s basic physics: what goes up, must come down.
I propose that someone invents a device that won’t open the door, until the toilet lid is in its proper place – down. Mere words won’t work to change your boyish behavior, but this sure will. Think of it as a Pavlovian, poddy re-training technique. Once men realize that they’re temporarily trapped, due to their own laziness, they’ll change. Instantly. Because if they don’t obey the restroom rules, they’ll spend hours leaning on latrines. ( An auto-release will eventually free them.) Without any food, sex, or the Super Bowl, because the only bowl that they’ll be seeing is a toilet bowl.
There’s a fatal flaw to my idea: men won’t allow this to happen. Since it’s still primarily a man’s world, men are running even the shit show. The Johns are in charge of the johns. At least, for the foreseeable future. So I’ll have to grit my teeth as I lower the lid. And write another nasty note to tape to the wall: “Your mother doesn’t live here and neither do I.”
Unlike many people, death holds no fears for me. I can think of many things that are more frightening than death, like: brutal bikini waxes, spending a day at Walmart the day before Christmas, and running out of Charmin when I’ve eaten too many cherries. I’ve never viewed death as “The End,” but rather as an extended vacation from being alive. I think of death like a Club Med trip, but without the expensive tipping, lousy lays, and scorching sunburns.
I believe in reincarnation, but I don’t remember my previous lifetimes in detail. That’s just as well. I don’t want to discover that I was a French hooker who gave freebies to corrupt politicians, or a dictator who murdered millions of people. The odds are, however, that I was merely one of the mundane masses. I was probably some Ordinary Jo (my middle name), who toiled at a mediocre job simply to survive. That makes sense to me. How many people could possibly have been famous in another life? Do the human math. Although I’ve met folks who claim that they used to be Cleopatra, Gandhi or the Virgin Mary. Unfortunately, their present lives are usually a far cry from their illustrious pasts.
If only we could control who we’d become, in our next incarnation. I’d be the first in line for long legs, corkscrew curls, an Albert Einstein IQ, and a talent for predicting winning race horses. But alas, we’re at the mercy of karma, chance and fate. I didn’t request the Midwest this time around. I disliked the bitterly cold winters and the toil of shoveling snowy sidewalks. My preference would’ve been some exotic location, like a tropical paradise with nubile youth, nimbly placing peeled grapes between my lips.
Maybe if I accrue enough karmic “Brownie Points” in this life, I may have more leeway in my next. But I’ll never know until I die and return, if this theory is valid. So in the meantime, I try to live the best that I can. It’s a toss of the “karmic coin” as to one’s outcome anyway. I’ll do whatever I can to avoid the future dire consequences of my negative actions now. I’ve vowed to pay my bills on time, rarely eat fast food, and never hide organic cookies from my husband. Unless, they’re from Whole Foods.