The ToileyUp

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
My attempt to solve the toilet seat up toilet seat down conflict that exists in many marriages

Submitted: July 21, 2011

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Submitted: July 21, 2011



The ToileyUP

By Bill Donnell

“Necessity is the mother of invention.” And so it was when I attempted to defuse the toilet seat up, toilet seat down conflict that plagues so many marriages. How well I remember the screams and curses when my wife parked her bare bottom on the cold china rim of our commode on a cold freezing winter night. I can’t be expected to remember everything all the time. If she had bothered to turn on the light, the incident might never have happened.

“You left the seat up, jackass! How many times have I told you to put it down? You’re a thoughtless chicken brain. There’s other people living in this house besides you. You don’t have any consideration for others. I didn’t know what I was getting into when I married a self-centered male chauvinist pig.”

“Shut up! You’re going to wake the neighbors. So I forgot. What’s the big deal? It takes only a flick of a finger to drop the seat. You’re too lazy to do even that. The energy expended to drop the seat is only .005 calories. I’ve done the math. You know I have a bad back and I have to bend over to lift it. That just goes to show what kind of a miserable uncaring individual you are. Have you no feelings for the disabled?”

“Don‘t give me any more of that scientific crap or disabled claims. You’re out on the golf course every Saturday.”

“That’s it! I’ll go on strike. I’m not touching the toilet seat. If it’s down, it can stay that way for all I care.”

“Going on strike eh! There’s a few strike breakers in the kitchen. You might wake up one morning missing a certain part of your anatomy. I’ll leave that part up to your imagination.”

This final altercation inspired me to invent a device to solve the toilet seat problem. It came to mind, a motorized toilet seat lifter, which would automatically recognize the sex of the user and place the seat in the proper position, would save me from her eternal nagging and the threats of bodily harm. I would invent such a device.

Though mechanically inclined, a considerable amount of research was necessary. I checked out several books from the library.

Mechanical Engineering - by Professor Charles Lindrig, Minnesota Institute of Technology

Introduction to Physics - by James Thurston, recommended by the Texas School Board

The fabricators Bible - by George Parker, association unknown

Electrical Engineering - by Professor William J. Horton, Oklahoma University 

The Theory of Everything - by Stephen Hawking

Many hours were devoted to the study of these books, and as my knowledge increased, I became ever more confident in the success of my endeavor, which I chose to name, “The ToileyUP”. It’s a catchy name and would prove useful if I decided to market the device in the future.

I made detailed engineering drawings of my invention and after badgering the assistant engineering professor at our local technical college, he reluctantly agreed to see me after my eleventh phone call. I spread the plans on the drawing board in his office and asked him to give me his professional opinion as to the feasibility of my device.

“Is this some kind of a joke? Are you serious about constructing such an abomination?”

“Yes I am. All I want to know is, will it work?

He looked at the plans, shook his head and said, “It probably will, but it’s a bit over engineered.” As door slammed behind me when leaving his office, I was in high spirits and could hardly wait to start construction.

My funds were not unlimited. My first trip was a large salvage yard to obtain a drive motor for the ToileyUP. The motors were either too small or too large. It wasn’t a Goldilocks moment. The small motors were lacking in power and the large ones were really too big, but with some modification, one might work. I finally settled a fifty horsepower motor that was once used to power a large industrial stamping machine. Without a heavy load, its speed was too fast. This necessitated it to be geared down. Because of its size, a transmission from a Mac Truck with a very low granny gear was my only option. With the further addition of various sized pulleys and belts, the proper speed was obtained. The rest of the project was fairly straight forward.  Because of the motor, transmission and the pulley system, there was very little space to maneuver in my small bathroom. I would correct this when finding a smaller motor.

Only a few glitches occurred in the testing phase and my ingenious placement of two red buttons on the bathroom door, marked M and F alerted the ToileyUp to place the seat in the proper position for the sex using it. All the fights and arguments would soon be gone with the simple press of a button.

“Hey Wilma, It’s finished. Come and try it!”

“It’s about time, stupid. I’m tired of running next-door to the neighbors. After three weeks, it’s getting tiresome, and they’re asking why you won’t fix the toilet.”

“It’s fixed now, Wilma!” See those two little red buttons on the bathroom door. One has an M on it. The other has a F. Just press the F button.”

“What does M and F stand for?”

“M is male. F is female, idiot. Just shut up. Press the button and try it out.”

 “I don’t trust it. Something might happen.”

“What could happen? Just because the buttons are red, nothing is going to blow up. Everything’s bolted to the floor and it’s perfectly safe.”

Wilma reluctantly pressed the red F button. She waited for a while, then cautiously entered the bathroom and closed the door. I kicked back on the couch, popped open a beer and switched the TV to the golf channel. Problem solved.

It wasn’t three minutes until I heard screams coming from the bathroom. I’m used to Wilma’s screaming but these seemed to have a desperate quality to them. This aroused my curiosity. I tried the bathroom door and found it locked.

“Help! Help! I’m trapped. It’s trying to kill me. Call 911!”

“Unlock the door, Wilma.”

“I can’t. Call 911!”

“Just hold your horses. I’ll pick the lock.”

Some months ago I bought a book on how to pick locks and a set of picks from a mail-order company. They were in the shed behind the house. I had to hunt and finally located them behind a stack of Popular Mechanics magazines. One had an article about a new high-tech golf club and I gave it a quick read. Wilma’s screams were getting louder. I brought the book and picks into the house and sat down on the floor in front of the bathroom door. I hadn’t got around to reading the book and it was difficult finding which chapter pertained to the type of lock on the door. I found what I thought to be the right one and proceed to take my picks and faithfully went through steps A through G. The lock wouldn’t open. I attribute this to my lack of concentration caused by Wilma’s screams. Four more attempts resulted in failure.

“Get the butter knife from the kitchen and jam it between the door frame and the door next to the lock!”

“What makes you think you’re an expert on locks, Wilma? I’ve got a book out here, written by a real expert and it doesn’t say anything about butter knifes.”

“Just do it! Help! Help! Call 911!”

I went to the kitchen and got a butter knife just to humor her. I pushed it in where she said and surprisingly the door opened. I found Wilma jammed up between the toilet seat and the tank with her knees shoved up under her chin. I wasn’t sure what the malfunction was. I suspected a faulty solder joint that may have caused a short circuit. I went out back to my shed, got my meter and returned to trace out the wiring. Wilma’s screams were such a distraction that I couldn’t think and I gave up.

“If you want 911, you call em yourself! If you would have kept quiet, the problem would be fixed by now.”

I handed Wilma my cell phone. About twenty minutes later firemen arrived on a flashy new red pumper. It was a new model the city had just purchased. One of the firemen interrupted my inspection of the truck and asked where the emergency was. I pointed to the house and said it was in the bathroom. The firemen rushed in. These guys were real pros. They had all the tools of the trade. They had pry-bars, hatchets, wrenches, a portable wench and a lot of other stuff. In spite of their expertise and tools, they were unable to free her. There wasn’t room in the bathroom to work because of the ToileyUP. An alternative plan of action was put in place. They knocked down a portion of the outside wall of my house that bordered the bathroom and a forklift was used to remove the commode, ToilelyUP and Wilma, all in one piece, through the opening and placed the load in the middle of the front yard.

The arrival of the fire truck and the commotion drew a large crowd of neighbors. Some laughed. Others shouted suggestions to the firemen as they struggled to free her. It wasn’t until the Jaws of Life, used to cut victims from car wrecks, was brought into action that finally cut Wilma free. The crowd cheered and a couple of firemen took a bow. Their action was most unprofessional and I called the fire chief and lodged a complaint. She stayed overnight at the hospital and came home in the morning with a large bottle of Prozac prescribed by her physician.

“There’s no commode, Jackass! What am I going to do now?”

I went out to the shed and got a wooden box. I cut a big round hole in it and slammed it down over the toilet drain in the bathroom.

“See this Wilma! There aint no seat to lift up and down. You aint got nuntin to bitch about anymore.”

I should have thought of that before I started on the ToileyUp.

I purchased two large sheets of plywood and nailed them over the opening the fireman made in the side of my house. I went out to the shed, got my ladder and climbed up to repair some additional damage made to the roof when Wilma came out of the house and kicked the ladder out from under me. It was a dirty trick that required no imagination. She could have been more creative, but Wilma wasn’t first in line when brains were handed out.

After three weeks in the hospital I returned home on crutches. The doctor said another four weeks of physical therapy would be needed before I could walk unaided. Evening came and I went to bed early. I spent a restless night because of the pain. In the morning I woke and grabbed my crutches, intending to go the bathroom. I stepped out of the crutches and fell face first on the floor, breaking my nose and receiving numerous internal injuries that hadn’t healed from the previous fall. The crutches stood vertical behind me like a pair of sentries at attention, guarding a gate. Wilma had put super glue on the bottom of the crutches. Now that’s creative. I’m sure Wilma didn’t think of it herself.

I’m back in the hospital. The doctors can’t say how long I will be here. I am hoping that someday I may be able to walk again. The hospital Chaplin visited me this morning and I told him all that had happened.

“What you have told greatly distresses me. As a man of God I am placed in a terrible position. I hope God will forgive me. My faith considers divorce a sin, and according to the Ten Commandments, so is murder. If you remain married, either one or both of you will end up dead. Sadly I am obliged to recommend the lesser of two evils, divorce.”

Hot damn! Why didn’t I think of that?





© Copyright 2019 Bill Donnell. All rights reserved.

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