CitizenTed

This time, saving Earth is FUN!

My buddy Alex and I were recently discussing the state of the world. We agreed that, goshdarnit, there’s just too much hatred and distrust on this planet.

But what’s a global population to do? When the Irish hate the Brits, the Americans hate the Mexicans, the Hutus hate the Tutsis,  the Tibetans hate the Chinese and everybody hates the Jews…it’s all just too much!

It seems we just can’t do anything about it. But that’s not true! We have a ready resource that is fully capable of solving all the ethnic hatred on Earth.

It’s called hot chicks.

Umm, yeah.

Doesn’t matter who you are or where you’re from; hot chicks make all your problems disappear. Even if you’re a woman. Because everyone knows that lesbian action is HOT!

Centuries of diplomacy have failed. Centuries of war have failed. Violence has failed. Cruelty has failed. There is only way to end all the divisiveness: hot chicks!

Ethnic groups that distrust each other should share with each other their hot chicks. I can guarantee you that all those national tensions will be relieved. Literally.

And so, I propose that we begin a global effort to share our hot chicks with the men who are most likely to affect positive outcomes.

Worth a try?

Would a hot Iranian chick soften Dick Cheney’s heart? Or am I reaching too far?

I submit that after two months in a tropical location, exploring every inch of this beauty, nature would work its magic and even the coldest heart in America would start to feel differently about the Iranian people and, by extension, Mideast policy.

Allah take her!

Reverse scenario: we send Ahmedinajad all the American cheerleaders he could handle. He’ll be singing “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy” within a week, I promise. Furthermore, when push came to shove, would he really nuke THAT? I think not.

Don’t believe me? In my previous post, I mentioned my interest in Yugoslavia. It’s worth noting that while republics and villages broke down along ethnic lines in Yugoslavia, people in mixed marriages didn’t participate in the war. Love had conquered their hearts; there was no need to conquer their lands.

Hot Croatian chicks could have prevented disaster!

After the Japanese surrender to US forces in WWII, the Japanese government was fearful of widespread sexual abuse of their women at the hands of the barbarian Americans. In order to prevent this catastrophe, they created brothels aimed at GI’s and staffed them with hot chick volunteers from across all the islands of Japan. It was considered a patriotic duty for a Japanese woman to offer herself to the invaders (for a small fee, of course).

It worked brilliantly. To this day, geriatric WWII veterans think back wistfully about the “pan-pan” girls.

MacArthur never touched them, but he recommended them highly.

The pan-pan girls helped realize Japan’s transition from a militaristic fascist empire to a capitalist democracy that eschews foreign war as a valid way of projecting power. Hot chicks made all the difference and to this day round-eyes line up for the latest fetishes from Nippon. America and Japan now form the greatest peaceful partnership the world has ever known.

I rest my case.

Hot chicks of America: are you willing to give up a bit of personal dignity in order to make the world a better place? If it’s any consolation, we men do it regularly. It’s called “American diplomacy” and it requires us to behave like completely worthless tools.

Thank you.

You go, Yugoslavia!

I’m fascinated with the former Yugoslavia. I’ve read every history book I can find on the subject, including the ham-fisted polemics from the various warring sides. Why? Because none of it made any sense. I had to untangle the knot.  I’m a curious bastard.

The Yugo. It's cute as... a bug!

Through 15 centuries of endless subjugation the “southern Slavs” carefully maintained their various cultural identifications: Serbs, Croats, Slovenians, Bosnians, Montenegrins, Macedonians, Kosovars and yes, even those zany Voivods. They are all small republics whose identities and cultures persevered against overwhelming outside forces.

That’s what I like about them. These people are scrappy. They revere tradition, but they’re not afraid to try new things. Everyone tells them they are nothing – just a bunch of tiny “nations”, each about the size of West Virginia – but each has enough cultural pride to make an English football supporter hang his head in shame. They refuse to believe they are “small”. I appreciate that deeply. Everyone feels small sometimes, even here in America where we’re all supposed to be big and proud and rich and happy.

Croatian girls - wouldn't YOU be proud?

Alas, the same nationalism that defines the southern Slavic peoples nearly destroyed them. The breakup of Yugoslavia was marked by some of the most heinous and hateful warring in Europe since WWII. Rather than bore you with the entire history of the place and the why’s and wherefore’s of the various wars, I want to hone in on what makes the place fascinating to me.

The Slavs moved into what was known as Roman Illyria around 500AD. Around this time, a penniless Illyrian named Justinian left home seeking his fortune and found it by becoming the Emperor of the Byzantine Empire. It’s good work if you can get it.

Justinian - emperor, lawgiver and Yugoslav.

Trouble is, Justinian didn’t treasure the land of his father. As invading barbarians and bubonic plagues swept across Illyria, Justinian left the poor bastards to twist in the wind. He had bigger fish to fry in northern Africa and Italy. It goes without saying that the Illyrians weren’t the happiest subjects of the Emperor.

And this unhappiness would continue. Illyria had art, culture, civic institutions and churches on par with their European neighbors, but they got no respect. “Oh, the Illyrians,” everyone would sniff. “Aren’t they a bunch of dumb farmers on the wrong side of the Adriatic? Whatever.”

Things got even worse when Muhammed invented Islam. They needed to spread the Word, and the best place to start was close to home. And guess where you end up when you cross Turkey into Europe? Yup. Illyria.

After centuries of being bitch-slapped by raiding barbarian hordes and Muslim lunatics, in 1389 the Ottoman Empire walked in and turned the place into a godforsaken peasant colony.

Life as a peasant sucked ass.

The Ottomans ruled Yugoslavia for 500 long years. Their one weak spot was relying on Muslim vassals (rhymes with “assholes”) to rule the colonies. This meant that Istanbul’s political reach was weak even though their military was mobile and effective. Political weakness made Yugoslavia a tempting No Man’s Land , an endless battleground between the Ottomans from the south and the Austro-Hungarians from the north.

Some of the Yugoslavs (Kosovars, Bosnians, Albanians) converted to Islam as a matter of expediency.  The Serbs tended to connect with Orthodox Christianity and adopted the Cyrillic alphabet. Closer to Austria, the Croats and Slovenes looked to Rome and were as Catholic as the Pope’s foreskin. The seeds of cultural disparity were sown.

The see-saw between Turkish and European control eventually ended in 1918 when both the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian empires collapsed in the wake of WWI. This is somewhat ironic, for it was the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914 that started the whole goddamn war.

Zapruder footage of Franz Ferdinand about to get capped.

For a brief period after WWI, Yugoslavia had a measure of new-found independence. Yugoslav thinkers and writers started waxing philosophical about a New Illyria, an independent republic of combined peoples born of a common Slavic heritage.

But while the academics puffed on their pipes and published their papers, an obscure Austrian corporal with a gay little mustache was busy building a new political party in Bavaria. Things in Europe were about to unravel again.

As world war once again swept into Yugoslavia, the passions of ethnic groups who had longed for centuries to express themselves vented in violence. The Croats formed a pro-German fascist state while the Serb majority aligned themselves with Russia against the Nazi onslaught. The lines between ethnic groups were never drawn clearer. Atrocities were committed throughout the region, and any Jew caught in the crossfire was quickly liquidated.

Fascism and Catholicism - two great tastes that go great together!

After the war, the Croats had some ‘splainin’ to do.  Before anti-Croat reprisals got too out of hand, a new face emerged that promised to end the strife, heal the wounds and unite the people. This is that face:

Tito looking very happy about things.

Josip “Tito” Broz  was a communist organizer who kicked some Nazi ass during the war. After the war, he muscled his way up the food chain to unite Yugoslavia under one banner: “Brotherhood and Unity”. To stitch his new nation together, he created his own version of a communist-style planned economy. Tito’s plan re-imagined Yugoslavia as a tightly-knit confederation of workers who put aside ethnic animosity towards a common goal of self-sufficiency.

“But, Ted!” you say, “Communism blows!”

Well, you’re right. Sort of. Difficult times call for drastic measures. And Tito wanted all Yugoslavs pulling together on the same rope, so he put a yoke on them all. And to everyone’s surprise, it worked.

Unlike Stalinism or Maoism, Titoism was a kinder, gentler communism. Sure, he had secret police. And yes, his planned economy was fairly unyielding. And yes, life under Tito was significantly less fun than life across the Adriatic in Italy. But Tito had a hard road to walk. Like his countrymen, he was sick and tired of foreigners exploiting the southern Slavs. He wanted to kill two birds (ethnic strife and economic weakness)  with one stone (communism).

Goshdarnit! Commies!

At first, the communist government under Tito was closely aligned with the Soviet Union. But Tito didn’t like Moscow dictating how he should run his hodge-podge of excitable Slavs. Eventually, Tito told the Soviets to go fuck themselves. And let me tell you, back then NOBODY told the Soviets to go fuck themselves. Tito had brass balls and wasn’t afraid of waving them around.

At home, he loosened the apron strings. Compared to their Russian counterparts, Yugoslavs had some freedoms. Tito introduced a more mixed economy and eased off on central planning. It was easier for Yugoslavs to travel abroad, start a small business, listen to western music, move to a new apartment or just relax and enjoy a nice glass of Slivovitz without some party apparachik demanding to see an alcohol permit.

After ruling a unified Yugoslavia for about 30 years, Tito died in 1980. Unfortunately, his successors were not up to Tito’s standards. They were barely fit to lick the man’s boots. As the Russian economy nose-dived and western Europe  worried more about a unified economy than about  trade with those weirdos in the Balkans, Yugoslavia began falling apart. Its economy was in the shitter and nobody was happy.

The Slovenians were the first to bolt. After all, they had borders with Italy and Austria and no border at all with the politicos in Serbia. They knew which side of the bread their butter was on.

When Serbia failed to force Slovenia back into the fold, Croatia saw that the gettin’ was good and declared independence with great haste.

Things got ugly.

Serbia told Croatia they weren’t going anywhere – not as long as Serbs lived within the borders of the new Croatia. Thus began the ungodly wars over every inch of various West Virginia-sized republics.

I won’t get into the land claims of the Serb Krajina, Republika Srpska, Croatian Bosnia, Albanian  Kosovo, etc etc etc. There isn’t enough space on this webpage to recount the details of the wars. Suffice it to say that shortly after he died, Tito’s “Brotherhood and Unity” went out the window as quick as you can say “Fuck you, leave me alone.”

After much internecine warfare, the various proud republics (who had labored under various occupation for over a thousand years) finally settled in behind uneasy borders. Slovenia is now a full member of the European Union. Croatia is a hot tourist destination. Bosnia-Herzegovina and Kosovo are at peace but with an obstinate Serbian presence. Serbia still considers herself the heart and soul of a greater Yugoslavia. They even have a “J” (for Jugoslavia) sticker on their cars.

You’re probably not as obsessed as me about the former Yugoslavia. But if you like watching movies, there have been a few good ones about the wars in Yugoslavia. One I recommend to everyone is No Man’s Land. It encapsulate the subject with irony and tension worthy of comparison to Dr. Strangelove.

Movie still from "No Man's Land".

The film takes place outside Tuzla, near the Serbia/Bosnia border. The two armies – well-funded Serbs and scruffy Bosnians – stare at each other from distant strongholds. In the middle, a Serb recruit and a  battle-hardened Bosnian find themselves stuck together in a trench. Caught in the crossfire of a heated ethnic war, the two men barely eke out some common ground while a hapless UN force tries its best to accomplish nothing.

If you want a glimpse of what happened in Bosnia, watch this film.

In the mean time, I’m thinking about taking another trip to the region. I’ve been to Croatia and Slovenia and enjoyed them both immensely. I want to see Belgrade and cross the tense border into Bosnia. I want to sip nuclear Turkish coffee in Sarajevo and walk the bridge in Mostar. I want to see the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro. I want to see the battle-scarred streets of Vukovar and the calm islands of Dalmatia.

It’s a beautiful place, which makes all the violence all the more troubling and pitiful. One is hard-pressed to countenance ethnic hatred when beholding the bucolic rolling hills, snowy mountains and palm-lined seasides of the former Yugoslavia. It’s the Mediterranean paradise that everyone wants to forget about.

In parting, here’s some photos from my last trip. Enjoy!

The Croatian countryside.

The incredible beauty of Plitvice lakes.

Signs of ethnic cleansing outside Senj

A beautiful day in a beautiful place.

The wind whips the Adriatic.

Fun on a Friday afternoon in Rijecka.

Stately hotels preside over Opatija.

A fairytale castle emerges from a cave in Slovenia.

Thanks for reading!

There are two forms of adventure travel:  there’s the boring “free-fall kayaking off the north face of the Eiger” adventure travel and there’s the “what the fuck was I thinking when I came to this hellhole?” adventure travel. I prefer the latter.

I hope to visit as many inappropriate places as my meager finances and vacation hours will allow. Paris? Feh. Alaska? Meh. Moscow? Neh. I want to see the places that people want to leave. I want to visit war-torn towns and decrepit villages.  I am more entranced by a dispossessed Hungarian dacha than by a gleaming Tokyo skyscraper.

Which brings me to Transdniestria. What is Transdniestria? It’s a breakaway republic located on the banks of the Dniester river (get it? Trans = across, Dniester = the river).

Can you see it?

Feel free to read the long-ass entry about Transdniestria in Wikipedia.

But here’s a quick synopsis: Moldova and Transdniestria (pronounce it like this: tranz-duh-niss-tree’-uh) were once part of Romania.  The area was called Bessarabia. Historically, Moldova was treated like a bitch, but it eventually became independent of Romania.

The fun times didn’t last. Moldova came under the influence of the USSR. The tiny nation  remained very Romanian, though. Romanian language, Latin alphabet, the whole nine yards.

Transdniestria, however, was the industrial center. The Soviets encouraged people from throughout the Soviet empire to move in and make the machines run. To this day, Transdniestria is a largely Russian-speaking republic and uses the Cyrillic alphabet – even though it has no border with its motherland anymore.

Not only is Transdniestria  Russian in tongue and pen, it is one of the last Stalinist-style regimes left on Earth. It is the nation that time forgot.

The House of Soviets in Tiraspol, the capital.

One is hard-pressed to understand why this plucky little breakaway republic decided that an authoritarian Soviet government was the best choice when the entire world was running away in the opposite direction, but I guess that’s what makes the place so noteworthy.

It’s also what makes the place so obstinate. The Moldovans weren’t happy about these Russkies walking off with Moldova’s industrial base, so a war occurred in 1991-92 to win back the territory.

The Russian 14th Army backed Transdniestria and the Moldovans were thrown back across the Dniester. Since then, an uneasy truce exists, and a propaganda war has taken its place.

Transdniestria has struggled to get international recognition, but their quirky ways have scared off most of the civilized world. In fact, the only two “governments” that fully support Transdniestria are the breakaway republics of Abkhazia and South Ossetia – the two regions at the center of the recent unpleasantness in Georgia.

So, we have Moldova – Europe’s poorest nation – claiming that Transdniestria is legally part of Moldova with no legal right to break away, and we have Transdniestria – Europe’s weirdest enclave – claiming that it was never part of Moldova and that it has the inalienable right to determine its own destiny.

Where’s the truth? Is Transdniestria really a lunatic asylum? Or have the jealous Moldovans merely demonized an otherwise calm and friendly hard-line Soviet regime? The only way to be sure is to go there yourself, which is what some intrepid tourists have done.

One of the few frank and interesting travel journals you’ll find online is from a Singaporean fellow named Weecheng. Read his tale here. For those of you short on time, here’s some highlights:

“We walked through this small city – dirty and run-down compared even to many ex-soviet states. This shouldn’t be surprising, for the state is broke, and there is little economic activity except smuggling. They issue their own stamps but have to affix Moldovan stamps in order to get them posted out of this mini-state.”

“The huge Presidential Building with the statue of Lenin stood nearby. A huge flag of PMR flew above. Web acquaintances have warned about taking photos here, but seeing no police around, I have decided to go ahead. Suddenly, a young man dressed in smart, well-ironed suit ran out and asked us to go into the building. It was forbidden to take photos here, he said, and we need to hand over the film.”

Happy fun times in free and democratic republic of Transdniestria!

OK. So maybe Transdniestria is a bit heavy-handed. Maybe they’re not the most enlightened culture in Europe. You might even say they’re bonkers.

But Transdniestria wants you to know that they’re not bonkers. In fact, they want you to know that they are among the most prosperous, democratic and lovable republics in eastern Europe. Just visit one of their propaganda public relations websites to learn all about this frisky and fun destination:

Pridnestrovie.net (“Pridnestrovie” is the preferred Russian word for the republic)
“See through the absurd rhetoric and you’ll discover that life in Pridnestrovie is fairly normal. Whatever Moldova’s propaganda-mouthpieces would have us believe, Tiraspol far more resembles a quiet Eastern European town (and a pleasant, leafy one at that) than North Korea. The young people chat on their mobile phones and sit in Internet cafes; the elderly gossip on benches while chomping on sunflower seeds; buses and trains frequently head into nearby Ukraine and Moldova.”

Visit Prednostrovskaya Moldovskaia Respublica!
“[Transndniestria] is more socially cohesive and economically vibrant than its larger neighbour [Moldova] – a failed state if ever there was one. Much of the reason for the divergence in living standards is that the Pridnestrovians have followed a more cautious approach to economic liberalization keeping many of the social benefits that existed under Communism. Compared with its neighbor, Pridnestrovie is like the Riviera.”

Clearly, what tourists have found and what these websites claim are in stark opposition. But that doesn’t mean I’m convinced either way. Often, the truth lay somewhere in between two extremes.

One day, I hope to find out by seeing the place for myself.

Holiday planning is fun!

Despite a dodgy economy, people like me still look forward to overseas travel. I’ll suffer the hassles and prices in order to see someplace new and exotic. To the traveler, the foreign mundane is utterly intoxicating. We snap untold pictures of brown children picking their noses and craggly old men plying their pathetic fishing boats. Why? Because they are foreign.

When I travel, I follow some common-sense rules. Here are some tips to make your overseas trips as sensational as mine.

Good work!

1. Travel heavy.
You should have a full change of clothes for every day you’ll be gone. For two weeks, that means 14 pairs of camouflage cargo shorts, 10 “Bush/Cheney 2004″ T-shirts, 4 golf shirts with curled collars, 14 pairs of yellowed whitey-tighties, 14 pairs of black socks, a pair of bright white sneakers and a Dallas Cowboys baseball cap. You’ll also need 3-4 faded sweaters and a Michelin Man parka. You can’t be too sure.

Since other countries are universally deficient in consumer goods, just swipe up everything in your bathroom and shove it in a bag. Many countries refuse to broadcast all their media in English, so you should also bring a laptop, a DVD player, 20-30 DVD movies, a Gameboy and an iPhone. The iPhone won’t really work overseas, but you can play with that cool tilted-flame application while you wait in line to see Lenin’s tomb.

Bottom line: what if you think you need it and you don’t bring it? This is the precept that should guide you when packing for a trip.

2. English, motherfucker! Do you speak it?
Foreigners have an irritating habit of speaking funny words. They do this to make you feel isolated and inadequate. Because you’re a stranger they think they can have some fun with you. Some travel guides encourage you to learn a few words of their barbarian tongue, but doing so only emboldens them to babble on in their language and criticize your pronunciation. This whole process is demeaning and hurtful to the traveler, so it’s best to simply demand that everyone who enters your sphere either speak fluent English or fuck off and find someone who does.

3. Itineraries are for faggots.
Don’t forget: you are the one opening up your wallet. It’s YOUR trip and YOU decide when and where you’ll be. As an American, you have an inalienable right to travel freely. Furthermore, booking hotels online is difficult and time-consuming. Thus, the smart traveler follows his nose and demands lodging in the first place he sees. If the clerk gives you any guff about being “all booked”, be sure to remind him that you are an American and with a snap of your fingers an A-10 Warthog will fly over his shitty little BnB and fire an AGM-65 Maverick missile down his goddamn throat.

Suck on THIS, Francois!

4. Sampling the local cuisine
One of the biggest pleasures of travel is enjoying the local cuisine. Of course, this is best experienced in Las Vegas, where you can watch foreign people sail down an ersatz Venetian canal while you suck down a half-pound bacon burger. But when you are overseas you will be faced with a bewildering selection of exotic foods. This bewilderment leads inevitably to horror when some Korean waiter brings you a plate of boiled aardvark ovaries. The savvy traveler reads menus posted outside restaurants and nods approvingly, then heads quietly to the closest McDonald’s.

Dinner in Zagreb. Don't try this yourself. I'm a professional.

5. Customs and courtesies
Travel is an enriching experience. It’s particularly enriching for the foreigners who get to be around you. Respect is a two-way street. If a Japanese guy bows deeply in greeting you, you should laugh out loud, slap him on the back and shake his hand vigorously. I can guarantee he will never forget the experience. Conversely, Europeans tend to be less formal and a bit stand-offish. Return the favor by ignoring them when they tell you to take your McDonald’s burger off a 12th century statue in the city cathedral. In no time, you’ll find yourself learning a lot about foreign people and the color schemes of their local constabulary. You’ll come home with plenty of stories and your friends will all want to travel as well.

When cultures meet, everyone benefits!

There you have it. I’m looking forward to traveling overseas this year. I haven’t decided where; maybe Scotland, maybe Latvia, maybe Cambodia. Regardless of the destination, you can be sure that I’ll have a helluva time. And so will everyone around me.

...is whatever she wants.

It’s that time of year again. That magical time of year when obnoxious fundamentalists do battle with government, business and society in order to secure their own vision of what Christmas should be. It’s a time for unnecessary spending and conspicuous consumption. It’s a time for awkward dinner conversation with extended family. But most of all, it’s the biggest opportunity of the year to extend your childhood without penalty.

Like everyone else, I have a charmed, nostalgic view of Christmas. To me, Christmas is linked to my childhood Christmases in a working-class neighborhood in New Jersey. It makes me think of wet snow, sleepless Xmas Eves, shiny red race cars, piles of crumpled gift wrap, turkey with all the trimmings and lots of noise, arguing and even tears.

For some years, I strove to recapture those Christmases. We all do. But I gave up about 8 years ago. Folks say it’s because I don’t have any kids. But that’s not it. I’ve just become jaded and weary. Christmas has devolved from nostalgia to commercialism to a carefully crafted national economic strategy. Try as I may, I can’t get past the fact that Christmas has passed. The American Christmas tradition (what is left of it) no longer appeals to me. At all.

I think the Festivus is a great idea. I’m also down with those druid dudes freezing their asses off at Stonehenge on Winter Solstice. They really walk the walk of Holiday spirit.

I have a friend from Sweden and her stories of Christmas in Scandinavia make me long to spend Christmas there. Being all northern and cold, Sweden has a special claim to Christmas. Even though they’re not a religious bunch, they know how to maintain a serious Christmas tradition. Choirs pop up everywhere, people go outside and ski all over the place, and young girls wear candles on their heads and sing sweetly for the family. They have Christmas trees but they tend to be humble, sparse things. They eat a big smorgasbord of fish and cakes and fishcakes. They give gifts to each other, but the spending is restrained. Oh, and their women look like this:

Beats the hell out of mall shopping, plastic Santas and Doritos n' Cheez Wiz, don't you think?

In Germany and central Europe, St. Nicholas – the jolly sainted man who delivers presents to all the good boys and girls – is accompanied everywhere by his doppelganger, named Krampus or Knecht Ruprecht. Krampus picks up where St. Nick leaves off: his job is to terrify and beat children who don’t behave. Throughout central Europe, when Christmas rolls around, the children are filled with equal parts joy and dread. St. Nick might deliver some goodies to the kinder, but Krampus may very well appear from the shadows and beat them to a bloody pulp.

For some perspective, this is Krampus:

Now THAT’S a goddamn Christmas tradition I can get behind! It’s little wonder that central European children tend to be quiet and respectful. Here in the US, kids have nothing to fear. Hell, if they don’t get everything they want on Christmas, they simply call CPS and accuse Daddy of wrongful touching. In the US, the children are the Krampus!

And so I leave you now, yearning for a better Christmas. I’ll part with a snippet from my favorite Christmas song:

I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave New Year;
All anguish, pain and sadness
Leave your heart, let your road be clear.

They said there’d be snow at Christmas
They said there’d be peace on Earth;
Hallelujah! Noel! Be it Heaven or Hell
The Christmas we get we deserve.

- Greg Lake

Tommy Toilet has never spoken truer words. Not that he makes a lot of public announcements. And I admit he has a rather narrow stable of interests. But you can’t deny the truth he evinces in this brilliant screed: you really should wipe your ass after taking a shit.

Why?

Are you kidding me??? Because nobody wants to be around some skid-marked mongo who reeks of week-old turds! That’s why!

“Oh, Ted. You’re just being juvenile. I thought you were so damn smart! This website of yours is getting dumb…”

Juvenile? Dumb? I think not. You should read the book “FLUSHED: How the Plumber Saved Civilization”. Here’s a link: FLUSHED: How the Plumber Saved Civilization

In it, author W. Hodding Carter describes the history of plumbing, from the primitive sewers of the ancients to the ancient copper pipes under your house. Throughout, a singular truth maintains: it doesn’t matter how much money you have, how educated you are or how cultured you may be: if you are knee-deep in bilge, you are NOT civilized. The humble plumber delivers civilization, not the warrior or the teacher.

Chew on THAT!

Now that we have set the serious tone for this conversation, let’s talk turds: we Americans need to re-consider and evolve our poopular practices. We have top-notch sewage systems as well as universal access to indoor toilets and some of the fattest, fluffiest toilet paper the world has ever beheld. So fluffy, in fact, that local grocers are known to squeeze it for cheap sexual thrills.

In America, we wipe our asses. We wipe ‘em good. We mow down massive virgin forests to pulp the trees into mush, chlorinate the Christ of it, then reel it out into miles and miles of miles of TP. We stock up on the stuff so we never run out. And each time we take a dump, it is followed by a barrage of wiping. Whether you fold neatly and wipe, bunch it up and wipe, stroke it front-back-front-back or just scrub it till it’s red and sore, we Americans wipe our asses with a vigor heretofore unmatched.

This concerns me.

If all this ass-wiping and all this toilet paper is necessary for normal hygiene, how did we ever make it to the 21st century? Is our success as a species a fluke? I say no. I say that America has an unhealthy obsession with toilet paper.  I say that we need to learn from others and find a new way to wipe.

We’ll begin by facing facts: the vast majority of Earthlings shit into a hole and wipe their asses with their hands. Don’t believe me? Go to any Third World locale, leave the capital city and mingle among the commoners. Eat their spicy foods, get a bellyache, and go take a shit. You’ll be surprised.

Most people shit into a hole. If they have plumbing, they’ll shit into a hole in the floor, like this one:

As you can see, they plant their feet aside the hole, crouch and squeeze out some dachshunds. When the deed is done, they wash their asses and hands using water from the basin. See any toilet paper in this photo? No. It’s all manual, baby. Back to basics.

Is this less hygenic than our perfumed paper serenade? Not really. You may think your hands never touched the poop when you inspect your toilet paper to judge if the job is finished, but you’re wrong. All the icky poop germs easily traversed that thin paper prophylactic and lodged themselves deep in your fingernails and the folds of your grimy mitt. That’s why you wash your hands after. You DO wash your hands, right?

So, toilet paper is not necessarily “better” than a good hand-washing. So why do we do it? Because it psychologically removes us from the presumed offensiveness of the act. It makes us feel more civilized than the animals who squat over holes and splash mucky water on their feces-smeared buttocks. It elevates us. It distinguishes us. It makes us appear “better”.

But it does something else to us: it makes our assholes red and sore. All my life, I have suffered regular (weekly) bouts of diarrhea. I’m not interested in diagnoses of Chronic Diarrhea Syndrome (CDS) or Crohn’s Disease or whatever. I just have a sensitive tummy. Pizza, Indian food and spicy meals make me squirt untold quarts of butt mud every time.

After a lifetime of this, I am amazed at how well my anus has handled it. As I write this, it is as content and springy as a newborn babe. Why? Because my anus has seen The Light.

It occurred on a recent trip to Japan. I had never been there before. When I arrived in Shinjuku, the first thing I did was hie myself to the teeny bathroom to take a dump. The airplane food dismounted poorly. It was one of those pasty, thick poops that normally requires a good 1/5th of the roll. You know – you’re basically just smearing the ass butter all over your cheeks. Each paper inspection is more alarming than the last. You never seem to get that final clean wipe that indicates the coast is clear.

But wait! This is Japan! The Land of the Rising Sun is also the Land of the Rinsed Buns! I inspected my toilet carefully. There was a handle with buttons and Japanese instructions. There were also icons. Like a British explorer deciphering a Babylonian grave marker, I made some sense out of it.

It wasn’t this toilet, but it was much like it. I was able to discern BIDET-MALE-TEMP-PRESSURE. So I selected carefully and to my surprise and delight, a mechanical friend positioned itself below my butt and sprayed a nice warm cascade of spritzy water right up into my butter-smeared buttocks. The sense of relief was universal. Entire continents swooned in unison with me as my turd-pincher sang a stirring love song and exalted in its own being.

As the final stanza trickled away, I turned off the bidet and wiped my ass with about three lousy squares of toilet paper – just enough to sop up the water – and it came away CLEAN.

This is how truly civilized people wipe their asses! It’s the perfect harmony between the Middle Eastern crap-hole, the French bidet and the American paper-thon. This is how we were meant to wipe ourselves. Not manually, but digitally. Throughout the rest of my trip, I spent many a happy moment on the john, spritzing away my worries and fears, and not a few Klingons.

I am now determined to find me one of these toilets. The premier manufacturer is Toto. They have some dealers in big American markets, but it’s almost impossible to find any of these wonderful Japanese-style toilets in the US. Research shows that not only are Toto toilets awesome, but they have the best flush-action-per-gallon in the world. The engineers that gave us the Honda Accord and the Sony Trintron also know a thing or two about flushing down the spackle, if you know what I mean.

Sit down, America! Sit on a Toto toilet! Stop rubbing your ass red with miles of American forests! Let the water do the work! I call on all Americans to contact their heroes – the American plumbers – and demand a Toto bidet toilet. If we all act with one voice, we can create change. Japan has shown us that there is hope. And where their is hope, there is life. I learned that in a Nicholas Cage action movie.

Put down the roll and press the button. Your asshole will thank you.