Things are about to get immature up in here.
Like the average modern person, I enjoy being clean. I do my cleaning in the shower – a fact I mention because clearly I am supposing you are a foul, unconventional man-beast whose course tongue is the only bathing tool you need. My problem with showers is, unless I’ve been doing any particularly dirtying activity, they only happen at two different times a day – morning or night. I’m willing to wager most of us in the developed world only shower once a day, like me. This leaves roughly a 24-hour period in which our bodies become a walking petri dish of bacteria. Sure, we wash our hands at least once at some point in the day, but what about the rest of our bodies? It seems anything that isn’t a hand is left to gather filth like we hope to cultivate it and sell it at a weekend farmer’s market.
There is another body part we also wash in between showers. I’m talking about that taboo yet oh so immaturely fun to discuss body part known as the anus. The anus remains clean until we use it to, you know, do that thing we all do but hate talking about for fear that someone within earshot is eating a bowl of chili. We don’t want to spoil their meal, thus robbing them necessary chili fuel they need to be productive. For years we sat down on a porcelain bowl, did our business, and wiped with a bundle of paper that worked the same way as a motivational mantra – it makes us feel safe for the moment, but deep down we know we’re still disgusting.
All of this was brought to my attention after a recent stark realization. A few years ago, I became a fan of using wet wipes immediately after regular toilet paper. After all, if you’re going to do the job, might as well do it properly by attacking on multiple fronts with different forces of cleanliness that have different specialties. America didn’t defeat Japan in WWII by marching atomic bombs in to Nagasaki and Hiroshima. We had men on the ground fighting the fight. When we deemed their job over, we had a separate unit come in and nuke the fuck out of some landmasses. That’s what a wet wipe is, just without all the nuclear fallout and tragedy and general awfulness.
One morning, after my usual visit to the bathroom, the stark realization hit me: before I starting using wet wipes regularly, my anus was the kid in school brimming with confidence, entirely unaware of the “I’m a smelly idiot” sign on his back. In the pre-wet wipes era of my life, regular toilet paper was the only force at my disposal. I now walk around with a confidence enhanced by my knowledge of how clean my anus is, which totally throws off my perception of who I was in the pre-wet wipes era. I’ve always thought I was a generally well-adjusted guy, never once being someone that breaks the basic tenants of the personal hygiene sections of the social contract. But now I realize I used to walk around with a dirty butt all the time. The cool guy that I see myself as in all my memories is now not so cool; it’s tainted; his ass was a disaster and he didn’t even know it. He was walking around, thinking he was the shit, when in actuality he was reeking of it. The only thing that makes this crushing blow hurt less is knowing that I wasn’t the only one. Nearly everyone, save for the lucky few who owned bidets or just splashed their butts in the sink when they were alone in the public restroom, walked around with only partially cleaned anuses. We were all on the same level.