Many decades ago, the future spouse kept company with a shaggy LA artist (he later went on to a career in Hollywood graphics) with whom she has remained in cordial contact. Back in the day, he used to have a sideline painting custom toilet seats, and on the occasion of my wedding fifteen years ago he apparently sent us one (“Kiss My Ass,” paired with painted lips), which I had not hitherto seen.

The hinge on the seat in the guest biffy failed yesterday, and I mentioned to the spousette that we would need to replace it this weekend. Instead, to my horror, she has installed the wedding gift.

I am sufficiently the middlebrow scion of my suburban parents that this is an abomination in my sight, and have informed my wife that if the appliance cannot be replaced before Monday with something suitably anodyne, I will regard the circumstance as grounds for divorce.

cordially,

I detest the casual vulgarity—revolutionary, perhaps, in the sixties, but offensive once it became incorporated in the popular culture starting the following decade—that has come to dominate the public sphere. I cannot contend with it there, but I will not permit its visual manifestation in my home.

cordially,