Bunny courtesy Mom, ear removal courtesy the Poet, Photo courtesy Baybeh 9700

At the supermarket: A late model Pontiac with 2,000 dollar rims and an . . . interesting self-appraisal of the cars value.

Even the 87 year old driver of a Buick mouthed an expletive.

Photo Courtesy Baybeh 9700

The business of elimination is a serious matter. Like Glenn Close, it will not be ignored. And like a performance vehicle, what matters most when you’re cracking the throttle into a tight curve, is that the tires maintain contact with the road.

Or in this case of toilets, your bottom to the seat.

Many seats are just not up to the task. Not even close. Blame on it on the economy or unscrupulous landlords or Xanax-ed out home builders, but good seats seem to be an afterthought that very few interior designers consider. Don’t worry, I have spared them the effort.

Right size it. Please. In recent years seats have tended towards being much smaller than the bowl. A very unfortunate circumstance. The seat should cover the edges of the bowl, on both lateral sides and the front. Why does this matter?

Maybe the bowl itself can accommodate Marmaduke, but if the seat is fitted for Garfield, what have we really done here? I’m not caring much about the lovely Yankee candle near the window or the satin nickle fixtures at that point. I’m trying to find reasons not to use the toilet plunger on the vanity mirror.

Batten it down, Scotty. At no time, should the seat ever, ever wobble during the approach, landing, launch or exit sequences. If the seat moves d, the screws are loose, it’s a bad design or it’s the wrong fit for the bowl. Fix it, Mr. Wizard.

Replace the seat periodically, just because. Toilets wear and stain, and are cumbersome to replace, especially if you actually want to touch your partner ( or yourself ) that week. And sometimes an old and busted toilet comes with the apartment. Why float the landlord a free improvement? Fine logic. But for God’s sake, quality toilet seats can be had for less than two tickets to the cinema. Netflix it one night instead.

You’ll thank me. And there will be one less toilet plunger stuck to the vanity mirror.

Nothing wrecks a day more completely than a full blown ear infection. The puffing, the ringing, the aching. And one gadget that reduced the incessant ear infections I experienced between age six and, um, about five years ago, is the coolio Ear Dryer.

Like a tightly focused hair dryer, the tiny stream of hot air eradicates moisture inside the ear. Why exactly air blasted down the ear canal and tympanic membrane after a shower makes any difference, I have never understood. What I do know is since using it I’ve only had one ear infection, compared with about six ( or more ) a year every year for the last . . . mumble, mumble . . . years.

Recently, the Ear Dryer stopped holding its charge. Seconds after turning on the device, the once reliable motor whirred, sighed and gasped. A quick hunting trip on the Internets, a twelve dollar battery and viola!

Once again, I’m pumping myself with hot air.

This entry is dedicated to the memory of Billy Mays. Sell on, you Harbinger of Infotainment, you!

Photo courtesy Baybeh 9700.