Behold, the fountain of anal youth! Such a simple concept, a spigot connected to the mouth of a water bottle and pointed at your pooper, gravity cleaning you in a way Newton never expected. And yet somehow it took us hundreds of filthy, itchy years to invent this holy grail of sphincter, taint, and ball hygiene.
Finally, we as a species can look forward to the end of fecal matter-and-blood-stained baby wipes clogging the toilets of dorms and slums, where fried food and ethnic slop transform your unruly anus into a violent, vomit-spewing vortex. We may gleefully toast the end of awkward penguin-walking down the halls until your screaming asshole heals. The end of tossing boxers in the trash rather than trying to salvage them in your shoddy, coin-operated washing machines. Just a squirt or two after the great purge, and it’s smooth crap-slit sailing.
If I had this phenomenal product in college, I would have garnered far fewer complaints from the ladies, literally plugging their noses as they went down on me at 3am, already fighting their growing gag reflex from the countless quarts of alcohol it took them to surrender their pride and go home with me. Perhaps I wouldn’t have developed my tragic diet of ramen noodles and bottom-shelf bourbon if I never had to drain my meager funds on back-up boxers and travel packs of baby wipes. And I would have cultivated a far less toxic self image if my buddies were never rightfully compelled to introduce me as “Baby Wipe”, a nickname I will never escape.
But now is the time for my baby wipes brotherhood and the tortured masses of irreparably chafed, toilet-papered ham flowers, to take arms together. Now is the time to rejoice. The clouds of perpetual dookie residue have dissipated. The portable bidet hath descended from the heavens, opening a portal to a lifetime of Clean Butthole. Fuck computers, the internet, and artificial intelligence. This is the Tomorrowland Disney promised us. This is the singularity. The exquisite evolutionary destiny of our opposable thumbs, to squirt tepid streams of holy water into the eager folds of our squalid rectums.
The portable bidet splashes us into the golden age of enlightenment. I envision cheerier porn sets, blissful one-night stands, and tighty-whities that stay elephant-tusk white from morning poop through dropping the Huxtables off for a night swim. Experienced cougars will carry these travel-sized taint showers in their purses just in case their young, virile prey are unaware of the glorious gift bestowed upon us.
The Future is Now. I weep with joyous abandon, just thinking that, when my future son hits puberty, the conversation won’t just be concealing church boners and condom application; it will include the proper use of the portable bidet: God’s gift to buttholes.
Spritz spritz, motherfuckers!