Sweden, what the hell? There is a war coming. Sweden is the aggressor. The victim is your penis. A political party in Sweden has tabled a motion to ban urinals in office restrooms and wants men to squat to pee. These adversaries of upright urination refer to studies claiming sitting down to pee is healthier for a man’s prostate and can lead to a longer and healthier sex life. I mentioned this to my wife, a family physician, and she scoffed and said, “I’d like to see those studies they’re talking about.” So would I, but a thorough search of PubMed and the internet alike turns up nothing other than “Sweden says so.” (The party cited medical research that shows men empty their bladders more efficiently while seated, and improved bladder evacuation reduces the risk for prostate problems.) Beyond the alleged health benefits, these Swedes aren’t big fans of our occasional lapses in aim either, and are going so far as to brainwash little boys in daycare by telling them, “Be a sweetie and take a seatie.” The only reason a man should sit down to pee is if it’s to do it out of his ass. Anyone who has been trapped on a cruise ship infected with norovirus or purchased Central American street meat knows what I’m talking about. Seriously, enough with the [expletive] bubble wrap. What happened to you, Sweden? You used to be cool. You practically invented Vikings with the whole looting, pillaging and taking-home-only-the-hottest-women thing. That Abba stuff really messed you up, didn’t it? There are lots of things to love about being a guy: Having pecs instead of breasts. Having an innate sense of which way north is. Opening pickle jars. Our role in the procreation process. And the only time you ever need a “sanitary napkin” is to wipe the barbecue sauce from your face. And there is standing up to pee. Of the things that make it great to be a guy, that’s damn high on the list. When I’m out skiing and beer needs to vacate the premises, I’m not going to squat to write my name in the snow. When I’m at the bar and walk past the long lineup for the women’s restroom into the men’s to use an open urinal, I’m happy to be a man. Especially when you consider how disgusting bar bathrooms can be. I get to stand a couple of feet away from the nastiness. Sweden, do you honestly think we’re going to give that up because it might impart some health benefits? You don’t know us very well, do you? We’ll drink high-octane alcohol and eat bacon with cheese and drive too fast and fornicate recklessly and play dangerous sports and jump out of airplanes that are in no danger of crashing. Do you think we’re going to start squatting because it might be good for us or even more sanitary? Not a chance. And don’t any women get the idea that you’re going to enforce this new urinary protocol on your men because it might be good for our health. You’ll incite rebellion. I know women are often worriers. My mom used to always ask me where I was going, who I would be with, when I’d be home, what that gun was for… My wife is sometimes inclined to do the same. I’ll be heading out for a bike ride, and she’ll ask what route I’m taking. I’ll wave in a general direction and say, “Oh, you know, thattaway.” Then she gives me stink eye, and I reply, “Relax. I’ve got my organ-donor card. Everything will be fine.” Yes, she worries, but even she thinks this peeing-sitting-down thing is stupid.I’m not saying I’m a regular at high-risk behavior. I wear my seatbelt, don’t drink or text and drive, always wear a helmet while cycling and skiing, restrict my alcohol intake, and keep the consumption of barely barbecued quadrupeds to a moderate portion of my diet. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to bubble wrap my life to squeeze a few more months out of it. When I’m out riding my carbon-fiber road bike, I race down hills so fast it scares me. When I’m doing bench down in my basement gym I don’t ask a neighbor to come over and spot me. When I ski I mentioned that I am wearing a helmet, but I’m wearing it while going over cliffs. I don’t smoke. I eat lots of fruits and vegetables and avoid processed foods. What more do you want, Sweden? Wait, I know. You want my maleness. You want me to become a sitting-to-pee neuter. You’re stressing me out with this bubble-wrap bullsh*t. And you want to know something? Stress is bad. Stress kills. Screw you, Sweden. You can pry my standing-to-pee penis from my cold, dead hand. Continue Reading

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