Welcome to the Throne Room: A Mission Statement From the Can

Gentlemen. Fellow sufferers. Guys who have been told to “use your inside voice” one too many times. Welcome.

I’m The Chief. Chief Shit Talker, to be exact. I run this outfit from a golden porcelain throne, I wear aviators indoors because the glare off my own brilliance is a real occupational hazard, and the goatee has been salt-and-pepper since roughly the day my first kid learned the word “why.” This website is my kingdom, and you are now a loyal subject. Congratulations. There are no benefits.

Why does this place exist?

Because somewhere along the line, the world decided men need to be managed like a toddler at a wedding. Everything is soft now. Everything has a disclaimer. Every product made for guys comes in “charcoal” and smells like a mountain that’s never met a man who’s actually been on one.

Meanwhile, the real conversations happen where they’ve always happened: in the garage, at the grill, in the truck on the way to the dump, and, most importantly, on the can. The bathroom is the last place on earth where a man can sit undisturbed for eleven uninterrupted minutes and think deep thoughts. Philosophers had the Parthenon. We have a slightly wobbly seat and a phone at 4 percent.

So this is a site for that guy. The guy who laughs at the wrong time at funerals. The guy who still says “pull my finger” at forty-seven. The guy who owns three tape measures and can find none of them.

What you’ll find here

• The Blog. Rants, stories, field guides and hard-won wisdom from a man who has learned every lesson the stupid way so you don’t have to. You’ll learn them the stupid way anyway, but at least you’ll have been warned.
• The Shop. Shirts, hats, mugs, stickers and other shit that says what you’re thinking but your HR department won’t let you say. All printed to order, shipped to your door, and guaranteed to make your mother-in-law sigh audibly.
• The Man Rules. A growing constitution for men who never read the first one.
• The Bitch Box. Our complaints department. We read every single one, usually on the throne, and then we laugh.

The ground rules of the Throne Room

This is crude. It’s foul. It’s funny. It is not mean for the sake of mean. We roast our wives because we’d take a bullet for them. We roast our kids because they’ve earned it. We roast our bosses because somebody has to. And mostly, we roast ourselves, because the man who can’t laugh at himself has clearly never seen himself trying to get off the floor after playing with the dog.

We don’t punch down. We punch sideways, at each other, like brothers at Thanksgiving. If you showed up looking for hate, you’re in the wrong bathroom. Flush and move on.

A quick note on the throne itself

People ask me, “Chief, is the throne actually gold?” It’s gold in spirit. It’s gold in my heart. It’s also gold spray paint, which my wife has described as “the stupidest thing you have ever done to a toilet,” and she has seen me try to fix one.

The point is: every man deserves a throne. A place where nobody asks him where the scissors are. A place where the Wi-Fi is strong and the door locks. A place to read, to reflect, and to scroll through absolute nonsense until his legs fall asleep and he has to walk out like a newborn giraffe.

That’s what this site is. A throne for your brain. Pull up a seat, crack something cold, and stay a while. Just wash your hands on the way out. We’re crude, not animals.

Long live the throne.

— The Chief

Shop the damn thing: Throne Room reading material.

Sound off in the comments: What’s the longest you’ve ever “hidden” in the bathroom to get out of something? Be honest. The throne knows.