The Legacy of Grossness: Why Are Men and Boys So Gross?

Why are men and boys so gross? Is it nature or nurture?

After shuffling the husband off to work and running the kids to school, I sat down in my back yard to ponder the day ahead of me.  Suddenly, the breeze collected the strong stench of urine, caused by my husband and sons who revel in the freedom of whizzing in the backyard.

I was left to ponder; why are men and boys so gross? Is this a genetic situation entirely governed by the XY chromosome?  Or is my husband’s influence? He’s the patriarchal leader of rankness after all. The primary reason that my sons enjoy all things stinky, stained and stomach churning.

Am I being too precious? I was raised in a home where my father was entirely outnumbered by oestrogen. I recall he used to wake up at 4am, just so he could sit on the toilet uninterrupted. He’d then read the paper in his underwear before we all woke up and carried on about our retinas being scorched by the sight of dad in his undies.  Maybe now that I’m outnumbered by testosterone, I need to acclimatise to a lifestyle of fart jokes, wee on the toilet seat and in-depth discussions about bowel movements.

The great wall of boogers

However, as I was scrubbing what I call the ‘great wall of boogers’ (the wall in my twins’ bedroom where they display their best work), I was thinking. Do I celebrate this delightful stage of boyhood development? Or do I spray the wall down with cooking oil so that the next amazing booger gains no traction?  Do I need to fight harder to eradicate the grossness or am I fighting a losing battle?

The peeing outside is not just smelly and gross, it also completely baffles me.  I watch my husband and boys cruise straight past the indoor facilities in order to whizz on the grass.  They know it shits me, Lord knows I nag about it enough.  It’s definitely not a convenience thing because the toilet is closer.  I’m grasping at straws, but could it possibly be a connection to nature situation? What is the appeal? My husband says I’m just jealous that I don’t have the equipment to relieve myself in the glory of the outdoors.  However, I would much rather the comfort an enclosed private room with the comfort and convenience of toilet paper.

The age old appeal of the ‘the willy’

All the chaps in my house, including the one who is almost 30, are entirely fascinated with their willies.  My husband thinks it’s hilarious to ‘air hump’ in my general direction when I am talking about something boring like car insurance.  He thinks it lightens the mood. Occasionally when he gets out of the shower, he likes to come up behind me whilst I am working and rest his balls on my shoulder.  Another hilarious mood lightener apparently.

But my 4 year old boys are equally fascinated with their junk.  I was trying to fold laundry last week when my son burst into my room dressed as the orange Ninja Turtle, wanting me to be the purple Ninja Turtle who needed to fight him.  I said no and he said; “then Michael Angelo will have to punch you in the willy”.  I explained to Michael Angelo that mummy doesn’t have a willy to punch.  So he altered the statement to “ok then, I will ball punch you instead”.  When I explained that I was also ball-less he actually felt really sad for me and said; “I’m sorry to hear that mum”.

I know this isn’t a phase due to the living, breathing proof of their father.  Perhaps this is a situation of ‘if you can’t beat em, join em’.  Last night as we all sat down together to watch a movie, I didn’t say a word when I noticed that both my hubby and son were sitting with one hand down their pants (I believe this is a protective pose just in case their junk falls off and runs away).

When they both farted within 30 seconds of each, again I remained silent.  However when my son turned to his dad and said “we is stinky, high five dad”, that was it, I had to get up and leave the room.  They can have their festival of farts, but I do not need to be around to breathe it in and watch them celebrate the bass, tone and volume of their bugle bums.

Avatar of Renae Butson

Renae Hall-Butson is an immature 30 something born and bred in Perth, W.A. Mother of three and survivor of twins. A former Technical Writer who has traded writing fascinating ‘think pieces’ about Mining equipment for writing about the chaos and terror caused by raising small children. Currently the operating a Technical Writing business from home and assisting her punk ass husband with his Music Promotion business (not all heroes wear capes). Hobbies include harassing her mother with prank phone calls, creating awkward and embarrassing moments daily and giving her husband the stink eye. A devoted Pepsi Max enthusiast who copes with adulthood by trying to find the funny in all situations. Once awarded the title of ‘professional turd polisher’ who enjoys the challenge of making the mundane interesting in an effort to make people smile.

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