Happy wife, happy life.

It's on. We've all heard the saying, "Happy wife, happy life." As a rule I generally tend to agree with the sentiment of that statement, I just find compliance to be the part where I suffer. Maybe obedience is the word. But here in our Garden of Eden, er, newish home we hope to die in one day, and I do mean one day waaaaay down the road, the time has come to dig my heels into the sand. Time to stand up for what I believe in, what I was RAISED to believe. Time for the war of the worlds. It's one of the oldest marital arguments that dates back to the invention of the toliet. As of this moment, I refuse to be cowered into submission over mans basic human right: to hang the roll of toilet paper with the sheet coming off the back.

Yes I have seen that little picture from like 300 B.C. If that is the sole basis for your argument, then you have no argument. That was 1891. Things were different then. Life was different. We started out on horses, but eventually all learned to pilot four wheeled petroleum powered vehicles. Would you go back to taking the horse to the saloon just because that's the way your great-great-great grand-dad did? We lit our homes with candles and lanterns in 1891. Would you eschew electricity, and your laptop, and your cell phone, and your refrigerator, garbage disposal, television, roomba, ferbie, vibrator (how'd that get in there), and you get my point in favor of wax drippings everywhere to relive the glory years? In the late 19th century, a single round, bolt action rifle was the weapon of choice when hunting for dinner was the norm. Would you give up your Remington R-15 VTR Predator with laser scope for a glorified slingshot? OK I lost you on that one. But here is my point: just because some simpleton scribbled a crude drawing on a rag of hemp cloth 127 years ago and held it up to the heavens for blessed approval does not mean I am going to kowtow into submission.

Why? I hear you asking. It's like this. We are about to celebrate a blessed event. And we're not having another child. Medically impossible at this point. But this year we will reach the 25 year mark for our marriage. I feel that is long enough. 25 years. If we are blessed to make it to 50, then this is the half way point. It should be my turn. It's time to pass the torch.

Here is my challenge to all you deniers. Hang it the other way for a week. If after seven days of wiping your bum you do not feel that tearing it off the back is just a little bit easier, then go back. It won't cost you anything save for a few new blisters while your callouses build up. Well, it might cost you a little sanity around the house, and it might cost you the price of a lovely dinner to make nice with your better half after the screaming match is over, but it is worth the effort. Consider this: what if the inventor was drunk when he made the drawing? What if good ole Seth Wheeler was having this same argument with his wife, and she did the old switcheroo with the documents (vis-a-vis Winthorpe and Valentine trying to fool Clarence Beeks) before he sent them out? The list of possibilities is endless. But I do know this, the fight will not be easy. It will not be swift. It may take internal fortitude the likes of which modern man has never seen. But half my marriage has been spent giving the happy wife her way. The next 25 years look to be rosy indeed, let's just hope it doesn't take that long to settle the the argument. When it comes to the cleanliness of my poop shoot, I will stop at nothing until I reach eternal bliss.