Ass warfare

There exists in Japan a brand of class-warfare unknown in the West.

No, I'm not referring to the wholesale subjugation of Koreans and the "Barakumin" caste--holdovers of a time long past that continue to be wielded like a club against the "less-than-desireables" in modern-day Japan.

Nay, I speak of a struggle that affects all of us here in Japan.  Young and old, rich and poor, Gentile and whatever the hell it is they worship around here.  I think it's supposed to be a deer or something?  Shit, I dunno.

This guy looks legit

Our struggle stems from the loftiest seat of power.  Whether we choose to acknowledge the fact that our behinds are besieged by an ass-aristocracy that rob us of commodal comfort where we Jesus this is tiring I'm talking about toilets.

If you want to know all there is to know about crapping in comfort in the 'Pan, take a seat and I'll provide the reading material.  Settle in, this is looking to be a two-flusher.

As I'm sure anyone with an Internet connection is well-aware, Japan is among the most technologically advanced countries in the world.  Prior to the iPhone turning the mobile market upside-down, Japan was the global leader in the mobile market, and still is on the bleeding edge of feature-phone technology and pioneered the use of 3G services on a massive scale.  This is the country that gave us the Walkman, the Nintendo, was at the forefront of solar panel technology before finally being usurped by Germany in 2008, and rendered love obsolete.

And yet, the same country, opts to shit in this:

Behold your personal hell

It's a God damn porcelain hole in the ground, colloquially referred-to as a "squatter." It barely flushes when it works and I don't know why this always happens but the guys who use the squatter before me never flush their poop.  And it's never like an ordinary duke, either.  I swear I will never understand the shape of the Japanese sphincter because the dootie always looks like really cheap rope or something.  You know, all thin and spindly? What are you eating guys, spider webs?

Not to mention the kind of workout you get while, as the name implies, squatting over these things.  Like a mad scientist who specializes in baby robotic barnyard animals, you must have calves of steel.  Sure, you get a little bit of support if you need it--you can wrap a hand around the stainless steel railing on the wall that every other person who has shat in that toilet all day has used like some kind of stripper-pole for E. coli.

And that brings me to my next point: as anyone who has been to Japan for any meaningful duration can attest, Japanese are crazy about hygiene.  We're talking about a country where, at the hospital, you must first remove your shoes and switch into slippers to go into the operating room, walk 5 meters, and switch slippers again before finally being allowed to enter for realsies.  You know, just in case it didn't take the first time.

We're talking about a country that, during the height of the swine flu pandemic, bought out every last box from pharmacies across the country, and when the stores sold out, scalpers sold cases online for over $1,000.

And yet, many bathrooms in Japan (particularly those in the most crowded areas, such as train stations), do not offer toilet paper.  Sure, a lot of those places have a dispenser at the front of the bathroom from which you can buy toilet paper--but not all of them.  If it's an emergency, you'd better have an eagle eye heading into the stall, lest you leave with a brown one.

Even more do not offer hand soap.  This is basic hygiene, fellas.  This is the sort of stuff they figured out in the 1800s.

And yet.

And yet, Japan offers scatological amenities befitting the incandescent ass of Hirohito, for those with the coin to afford it--or who are fortunate enough to work in a building or visit a restaurant that furnishes it.

This thing...

...controls this thing

Read 'em and weep.  Boasting automatic lid, automatic flush, self-heating seat, self-illuminating bowl, bidet, ambient water-trickling-sound-to-cover-your-shameful-deed (not joking), and a remote sporting more features than the holiday season Sharper Image catalog, this is the '67 Corvette of the fecal freeway (skid marks not included).

Self-heating.  Self.  Motherfucking.  Heating.  Do you know how long that has been a dream of mine?

Neither do I, but if I had to guess it was probably the first winter after I discovered jerking off or possibly when I discovered that if you hide it in your pocket going in, no one can judge you for playing Game Boy while making doo-doo.

Words cannot describe the schoolboy-on-Christmas squealing that followed when we moved in to my wife's dad's place and I found out his shitter was rocking one of those self-heating seats.  Seriously.  Like an terrified sea otter on helium.  

Some guys sneak out of bed in the middle of night to have affairs.  Me?  My first month here, my "other woman" was named Lady Toto Toastybottom.

And if you're really lucky, after you're done, you have this to look forward to: 

Christ, my bathtub isn't this nice

This thing is a dream machine--man's greatest substantive contribution to sanitation since penicillin.  A sink with automated faucet and soap dispenser, and combination UV sanitizer and blow-dryer all-in-one. I mean, like, what?  You take the subway and you're basically one step up from using a garden hose, but you work in an office with your own personal shitter where at least you know who all the filth belongs to and you get this thing?  How is that a possible thing that can happen?  

Truly, there is no justice in this world.

Those decadent, feculant, poo-tocrats in their towers of glass and steel have these things to retire to when nature calls, while we working-class peons have little better than troughs to pee-in.  It's not right.

Anyway, I'll spare you any more of my proctological posturing about the plight of the powder-room proletariat.  I heard a flush, and I just got Mega Man X3 for my PSP.