The Great American Ass-Washing Debacle

Let’s get one thing straight. And I mean freakin’ straight.

We’re living in an era where your refrigerator can remind you to buy oat milk, your car can practically drive itself (right into a ditch, but hey, it tried), and a chatbot can help you write your goddamn wedding vows. We’ve conquered Mars. Robots are performing surgeries. We’ve got dog DNA tests to confirm your poodle is 3% wolf.

And somehow, somehow, this nation, brimming with tech, testosterone, and enough self-help podcasts to choke a horse, still hasn’t figured out how to properly clean its own ass.

You gotta be kidding me.

Let me scream it louder for the people in the back, and for anyone still wiping like it’s 1840:

DRY PAPER DOES NOT CLEAN PEANUT BUTTER OFF A CARPET.

Seriously. Try it. Spill a little on your rug. Get that Jif, that Skippy, whatever you’ve got. Now grab your precious triple-quilted UltraSoft , your “luxury” toilet paper, and give it a wipe.

I’ll wait.

What you’ll be left with is a slightly less brown rug and a deeply unsettling realization.

This is how you treat your body every single day.

Meanwhile, the rest of the civilized world? They’re washing. They’ve got bidets, washlets, precision nozzles with settings like “oscillate” and “posterior cleanse.”

Japan’s toilets are smarter than half your extended family. Heated seats. Scented air. Directional spray.

You hit a button and it’s like a cherub gently blowing forgiveness on your sins, among other places.

Meanwhile, we’re over here dragging dry bark across our backsides like cavemen on a camping trip.

And what do we have to show for it?

Cartoon bears. Still arguing about skid marks.

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The Cult of the Sacred TP

Those creepy-ass Charmin Bears. Living in a cabin. No pants. Holding family meetings about dingleberries like it’s a wellness retreat.

They’ve been pushing the paper gospel for decades.

You’d think they’d evolve. Learn plumbing. Maybe put on some clothes.

But no. Just wiping. Just preaching. Just staring out from your TV like prophets of the pulp.

These bears aren’t just weird. They’re obsessed. Every commercial is a family therapy session about feces. They don’t sell toilet paper; they meditate on it. Skid marks. Residue. “Pieces left behind.” It’s like every time you see them, they’ve gotten deeper into some cult of cleanliness, and nobody’s asked why they care this much.

They don’t talk about school. Or honey. Or bear things. They talk about poop. At length. Like it’s their sacred duty.

At this point, I’m convinced they’re hiding something in the woods.

Like where they buried Goldilocks’ body.

Because you can’t spend two decades on national television talking about your ass with that much conviction and not be part of something darker.

Anyway.

It’s a cult!

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The Cult of the Sacred TP.

And yeah, you’re probably a member.

And don’t even get me started on the branding of the backup plans.

Dude Wipes.

Because heaven forbid your masculinity survives a splash of water. You can’t just rinse. No – now you need a man wipe.

(Btw remember when it was baby wipes? Nah, that’s for little boys. We need DUDE WIPES.)

Something rugged. Probably menthol-infused. So you can tingle while tossing a shame-soaked square of plastic into someone’s trash, wondering how the hell you got here.

Do you hide it in a drawer? Build it a tiny casket? Start a new life under an assumed name?

Because that’s where this leads.

And yet the bidet? Still taboo. Still “weird.” Still “foreign.” Still something that might accidentally make your butthole feel seen.

And apparently, in this country, we are not emotionally prepared for that level of self-awareness.

What a joke.

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A Religious Experience for Your Rear

I get it. I was raised on dry too. I thought I was clean because I felt dry.

I was wrong.

I didn’t know what clean was until I sat down on a warm Toto seat, pressed “rear wash,” and had a full-on spiritual event.

I floated like a goddamn angel.

Now I can’t travel without missing it. Vacations feel like I’ve been thrown back to the Stone Age. Even wipes don’t measure up. And since you can’t flush them, you end up carrying around a Ziploc full of used shame like some kind of hygienic squirrel.

I offered one to my daughter for her bathroom. She’s eleven. She called it “nasty.” Said she needs paper.

I tried to explain – the pressure, the temperature, the oscillation, the gentle air-dry that cradles your cheeks like a mother’s hug.

But she’s still American. Still indoctrinated. Still young.

There’s time. She’ll learn.

Or she’ll just keep walking around with a dirty ass. Her choice.

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And let’s be real, bidets should be everywhere by now. But they’re not. Why?

Because this country was founded by Puritans who thought anything below the belt was sinful unless it produced a child or guilt. Because for them, washing your ass was practically flirting with the Devil.

Because American GIs first encountered bidets in French brothels during World War II, and instead of going, “Wow, this is hygienic,” they went, “This feels slutty.” So we came home and built a toilet empire on shame and dry paper.

Because if a man in this country feels a targeted spray of warm water on his rear, he immediately spirals into a crisis about his sexuality, his father’s approval, and whether he can still watch football without crying.

Because softness got mistaken for weakness. Water got called “weird.” And wiping became an act of patriotic grit.

So we stuck with toilet paper, doubled down on the illusion of comfort, and let Charmin Bears become our national hygiene advisors.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world rinses, dries, and gets on with their lives like actual adults.

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So yeah. Call this a public service announcement. A demand. A love letter. A cry from one civilized ass to a nation of dry deniers who clearly haven’t smelled themselves after a long day.

This is one MAGA I can get behind.

Make Asses Great Again.

With warm water, a little air-dry, and the dignity God intended.

Because your butthole?

It deserves better.

A lot better.

So please, America. I’m not begging you. I’m telling you.

In the name of plumbing, progress, and basic human decency…

WASH. YOUR. ASS.

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Thanks for reading…

Keep cleaning America:

Swedish Death Cleaning for Geeks