I’ve had enough. For far too long, me and my fellow menfolk have been forced into cruel, subservient tasks: The s— jobs. My latest epiphany reveals why it occurs, and one brave man’s attempt to right this messy wrong.
Be forewarned: This epiphany is laden with gender stereotypes. If you are a woman, and you happen to also get the s— jobs, you have my sympathies. This epiphany is not directed at you.
But in my neck of the woods, the man not only gets the shaft, he gets the s—. Here are a few examples:
• When the toilet backs up, we have to plunge the s—
• When the dog craps on the lawn, we have to pick up the s—
• When the garbage has to go out, we have to put out the s—
• When its redecorating time (groan), we have to move all the heavy s—
Now I know my wife could do these things. She’s an exercise nut, and more than capable of plunging, pick up, putting out and moving s—. But I always get the job. In fact, it’s always been assumed that men get the job.
Forget the “Glass Ceiling.” This is the “S— Basement.” And after extensive research, I’ve uncovered why it exists.
Downfall via Diapers
In previous generations, men were the lone bread earners in the household. After busting their humps all day, aproned wives rewarded them a martini and a warm meal. And these guys didn’t change diapers. At all.
But mom did have a little pull, even back then. To compensate for not handling their kid’s s—, dads had to handle everyone else’s s—. They accepted the s— jobs, and all was well.
Fast forward to today’s dual-income household, where both moms and dads bust humps all day. In these household, men change diapers. They don’t dare do otherwise.
Yet we don’t see a re-alignment of the s— jobs. Why?
I explained the inequities of the system to my wife. She listened patiently, nodding as I described the insurmountable horrors of plunging, scooping, and picking up s—.
“I used to dream of you,” I said. “And now I dream of poop.”
I proposed that we redistribute the workload. We would share s— jobs together, just as we had shared diaper changing. Together we would scrape dog excrement from our shoe soles. Together we would move that freakin’ heavy hide-a-bed for the thousandth time. Together we would contract e coli from fecal matter run amuck.
She listened patiently, studying my face, seeing my pain. Then she checked her watch.
“The Johnsons are going to be over in an hour for dinner,” she said. “Can you plunge the downstairs toilet? Junior backed it up again.”
“But what about my plan?”
She shook her head. “To be honest, it sounds like a bunch of s— to me.” Then she handed me the plunger, kissed me on the cheek and walked away.
Fear not, ladies. Looks like the S— Basement is here to stay.
Photo by cheriedurbin