When Elves Attack by Tim Dorsey Page A

unending series of watery bubbling episodes. Finally: “I’m better now.” Jim whistled. “But I’m really feeling that drink. Where was I?”
    â€œWiping feet.”
    â€œUh, yeah. When I mentioned not tracking stuff in, that really isn’t number one.”
    â€œYou must tell,” said Serge. “The knowledge that is the source of all truth . . .” He got up and bent into a Karate Kid pose.
    â€œNumber one is actually peeing.”
    â€œHold that thought.” Serge stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “Must have wax buildup. I thought I heard you say peeing.”
    â€œI did,” said Jim. “There are all kinds of guidebooks to educate the genders about each other’s sexual physiology. But the real ignorance zone is how we urinate.”
    â€œJim,” asked Serge, “are you on some kind of medication where you’re not allowed to drink alcohol?”
    â€œHear me out. You ever wander into the ladies’ room by mistake, like at a restaurant?”
    â€œWho hasn’t?”
    â€œWhat did you notice?”
    â€œIt was clean,” said Serge. “Like an operating room.”
    â€œAnd men’s restrooms?”
    â€œA disgrace,” said Serge. “Especially when it’s a busy place like a sports arena, and all the urinals are taken and they have to use the toilets to pee. Might as well set a pack of chimpanzees loose in there.”
    â€œExactly,” said Jim. “Men were built for urinals, not toilets. But homes only have toilets. Even the most careful guy can’t prevent a certain amount of sprinkle and ambient mist, not to mention a little splashing from the bowl if your stream’s strong enough.”
    â€œI follow,” said Serge. “Women don’t realize we really are trying as hard as we can, but it’s a curse. They think we’re not aiming at all.” Serge looked across the table. “Country?”
    She raised her mouth from the chimney. “You aren’t aiming. You just go in hosing wherever you like.”
    â€œYeah,” said City. “We’re tired of cleaning that nastiness up.”
    Serge looked back at Jim. “Pray tell, what can we possibly do? We’re only men.”
    â€œIf you really love a woman,” said Jim, “then right at the beginning of the relationship, you have to get your arms around the urine issue. After every use, wipe the place down like you’re leaving a crime scene because, in a way, you are.”
    â€œBrilliant!” said Serge. “Any other gems? Like earlier when I saw Martha outside yelling like a banshee, and you were trying to explain yourself. Explaining goes against everything I’ve ever heard, centuries of men comparing notes. Have you made some kind of breakthrough that hasn’t hit the news yet?”
    â€œNo.” Jim looked down at the table. “Trying to explain was a mistake. It’s the toilet thing again.”
    Serge sat back in surprise. “But after all you just said. I thought you were the master.”
    â€œI did, too,” said Jim. “But that’s another thing: You’re always learning. Like tonight I was in the living room watching a football game, and we have this bathroom off to the side. Actually, a half bath because it doesn’t have a tub, which some claim might cost you on the resale, but others believe new kitchen countertops—”
    â€œJim!” begged Serge. “We’re grasping for knowledge! In God’s name, focus!”
    â€œ. . . But anyway, I leave the bathroom door open so I can still hear the play-by-play, and right in the middle of doing my business, I hear the announcer go nuts, the halfback is in the open, racing down the right side for the tying score. So naturally I look over my shoulder to see the touchdown. And wouldn’t you know it? Martha picks that exact moment to walk by, and she yells,