We can put a man on the moon but we can’t figure out a foolproof way to contain backsplash?

You can now buy spray cheese in a can and strawberry edible underwear but if you’re not a graduate student in fluid dynamics you end up with sprinkled shoes?

The urinal has some serious issues, people.

The good old design that has carried us forward from the days of cavemen shooting it down a cracked rock is just not cutting the mustard anymore.   I realize that tradition says a lot — who doesn’t love those adorable porcelain hairwashers all hanging in a row, looking like so many faceless golems with their mouths agape, awaiting the spring rains?   In middle school they were our targets as we frogstepped backwards and attempted to best our pals’ records.  The college gals living on a previously-men’s floor found them to be great planters and grew some mighty philodendrons.   They’ve certainly seen their days of glory.

I am not suggesting, mind you, that we revert; even if you’ve never lined up at the 20′ Stainless-Steel Trough of Hell in a sports stadium, you can just imagine how pleasant that experience is to the participants.    Let’s keep in mind that function is king but form is definitely a close second.

I mean, good lord — a TUBE would be a better choice, eh?   A funnel?   Something that gently cradles the stream in and gradually alters the course towards the drain?   Anything better than that sharp, harsh backdrop.   Approaching this and attempting not to get anything on you is akin to trying to fire a gun at a brick wall and dodging the rebound.     This is not good technology, people.

Technology has provided us with toilet seats that pre-warm themselves, low-flush solutions, and if you’re really daring, self-mulching bogs for those of you who like to self-fertilize your own roses.

How has the urinal been left behind in development?

Who did we piss off?

Or on?

What the hell is up with “lite” sour cream, would someone please tell me?

I am a huge fan of sour cream and this was such an incredible lack of judgment on my part, I just have to share — to warn and advise.   Mostly to warn.   Strenuously.

Like many of you, I try to be conscious of what’s sliding down my gullet and I’m all about choosing products that are lower in fat, salt, sugar, and anything else determined to be cancer, heart-attack, stroke, or stupid-causing.   I will happily defend my consumption of diet pop, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter (really — it’s not that much of a stretch), and low-salt gravy not in the name of them being exactly like the original products, but close enough proximity that the sacrifice of flavor is more than made up by not coating my insides with lard and corn syrup on a daily basis.

Not so much luck with Lite Sour Cream.

I don’t know why I picked it up — I guess I saw the label, like above, and figured that whatever was lost in the pursuit of something that doesn’t stick to your hips as readily would be acceptable.   Boy, was I mistaken.

Have you SEEN lite sour cream?   It looks like a plastic bucket of cold whale spooge and has the consistency of snot.     Immediately upon opening it up I checked the label to make sure I didn’t accidentally stop by the “Spawn Your Own Salmon” department instead of the dairy case.   I was dubious about it crawling out and throttling me as I stood there, let alone trying to flavor my baked potato.

But looks aren’t everything and one shouldn’t judge a book by its…gelatinous appearance…so I proceeded to slop it onto my baked tubers and give it a shot.    To say that it invokes a gag reflex is being kind and gentle, I assure you.

Whether or not it has any flavor besides “disgusting mess” is hard to determine as your tongue backs away from it in a damned hurry.   What little made it down my throat before I decided that starving sounded better had a strong essence of moose spit and rubbing alcohol.   I’m unsure whether or not there is actually any, “cream”, inside and if there is, I’m probably better off not knowing what sort of cream it really is.

Let’s not kid ourselves — sour cream is one of man’s finer culinary creations, right up there with butter, but it’s horrifically hard on your body, what with a ton of fat, calories, and so forth.    But my god it’s tasty and goes perfectly well smothered ontop of any number of food items.     So why wouldn’t we look for something that’s a bit easier on the paunch yet still gets the point across?   I understand the motivation at least.

Lite sour cream, however, is not the answer, unless you are so sadistic that you enjoy self-torture with food products.   Clearly this is one area where a healthier alternative has not been achieved and we would all do better to simply use the real thing in moderation or shrug and ladle on great globs of its creamy, sour whiteness with glee and screw the consequences.

Whatever the outcome, I guarantee you’ll be happier than if you had used something lite-er.

Apparently, my timing really stinks.

Lately it seems that I can’t get anything right when it comes to being in the right place, with the right answer, resources, or presence and instead of events going off without a hitch they go off with a stutter and a choking sound.    I am the woodwind with two left feet in an army marching band.   I’m the drummer that can’t find a beat.   I’m the clock with a tooth missing on the main cog.

So much of life is a matter of timing — that innate sense that some people to push when you need a push, pull when situations require a pull, and to back the hell off when you’re best to leave a circumstance alone.     I’ve always been envious of the folks that always seem to make the right step, follow the correct path, and construct the perfect plans.   You know the type — he’s the one that always dodges the bullet despite the gung-ho attitude, and she’s the one that you are sure will falter and yet comes out smelling like a rose AND with a gift certificate.

Maybe I get too passionate in one direction or another and I should mellow out and float rather than fight the current; or, maybe I should be bolder than I am.   People make great strides by being complete and utter dicks — maybe that’s my calling?   It was always the “bad boy” that got the bombshell girl, maybe taking the same approach with life has its benefits?

Most of the time, I’m not sure if I’m striking out because I missed the ball or I simply missed the fact that there was a pitch thrown at all.

It’s probably all in the timing.