Yep… that’s right. Butthole.

No… not that one. The dude in the white Tesla Model S? The one who just cut you off in the Whole Foods parking lot to get your parking space, right? No, no, not him. He’s an ‘asshole’. And contrary to what he believes his car will say to you, he is not the ‘ S ‘ in sexy… nope.

No, I’m talking about butthole. Or buttholes. As the cliché says, we all have them. And this an opinion piece about them. My opinion. To match my butthole.

Our buttholes, perhaps more accurately – our anus’s [ or is it ani’I? … I think that’s an island in Hawai’i ], are defined as the opening at the end of the alimentary canal through which solid waste matter leaves the body. Though I’ve had different experiences… Some have been solid. Others runny. Some grainy. And awfully, there have been some watery… Sometimes explosive. Usually gentle. Occasionally forced… Stinky – like foul as the most unimaginable funk… Usually brown. It can sometimes be more caramel colored. Sometimes olive colored. As a kid when I drank too much purple Kool Aid it was actually purple – that was freaky. Literally some freaky shit!

That’s what comes out of our buttholes. Shit.

In a movement we call a B.M. – otherwise known as a bowel movement. AKA – shit leaving the anus.

Italian born. Argentinian raised. Fluent in five languages – Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, English and French. Rich as fuck. But quietly so. Just ask her some time about ‘ the farm ‘ . Or her uncle. Georgio. She’s a funny chick. My best friend Astrid.

Funnier than fuck. Our Astrid is. ‘ Uuuye stoopee’d ‘Mericans. Uue r jus so stoopee’d. An ur butholez – dey r fil-t ‘ Translated – You stupid Americans. You are so stupid. And your buttholes are so filthy.

In one of our first laughter-filled, gut-busting lunches [ seriously, until we cry almost every time ] she tells me how when she and her husband and their boys moved to Los Angeles, they were appalled that they could not find a home with a bidet. Forget a proper bidet. Just a plain, single, fucking bidet. Anywhere. Her youngest son, just eight years old at the time, would ask her ‘ Mama, y dese ‘Mericans havv nu bidets? Howe du dey cleen dey buts?’ Ah – out of the mouths of babes. Come the wonderment of what comes out of the buttholes of Americans. And how we don’t clean them.

52 now. And it was only a few years ago that I finally… yes, finally – understood the saying – amongst we men, I think, exclusively – of ‘ shit, shower and shave ‘ . The 3-S’s – a holy grail to masculine cleanliness. Also not to be confused with Tesla Model S or that asshole who is now sipping on a quad shot latte in the deli line. And I do think it’s just us guys… who are supposed to shit, shower and shave. But maybe it’s the girls too? Right. You all have to shave your legs and pits… so maybe, you shit, shower and shave too? I don’t know. Being gay and all. I still find it near impossible to believe woman have anything other than spring time bouquets coming from their buttholes. But… again, not the expert on that topic.

I’m a morning pooper. Like clockwork. Thank God. I have my breakfast – 3 eggs. Scrambled. Maple oatmeal. With diced strawberries. Quad shot latte with whole milk [ no the Asshole and I are not related. And I drive a Range Rover ]. And papaya juice. Then… practically like clockwork – I do think you can set it to a stopwatch. I poop. Feels so good… especially the big ones. I can just feel my colon convulse and then push. Push it all out. That poop is propelled with intention and purpose. Hitting the cool waters of the toilet below the seat I sit on. Maybe one or two more convulsions and expulsions. And a flit-flit of the hands, perhaps a little kick-kick of the grass below my paws, and we’re good to conquer the day.

Oh, but wait. That’s right. There’s the wipe. Yah… about that.

I wake up and hit the shower. It’s how I wake up. I think it’s because I’m an Earth sign. Sleepy. Groggy. Puffy eyes. The yank and wank of the iPhone alarm tells me ‘ get up mo’fo – days’ startin!’, usually at 5 am. And I hop in the shower to be nurtured by the waters that give me energy. Filling my earthy self with replenished hydration.

So. By the time I shit. I’ve already showered.

And I have a beard. Getting more and more peppered with grey might I add. Looking very sexy… you know, me and Sean [ Connery, God bless his soul ] – my brother [ or maybe uncle ] from another mother. Sexy grey beard and all. But I don’t shave… except maybe once a week to trim up the lines and get rid of that Velcro stubble that gets in the way when I’m binge watching the latest Netflix docuseries on some embezzling New York socialite from a trucker family in Germany. Can you imagine – yah the drifter grifting is nuts, but not that. Shitting only once a week when I shave? I would be so bloated and in so much pain. And the farts would wreak.

So… for me is it more like Shower[7x/wk] / Shit [7x/wk] / Shave [ when I feel like it ].

The point is, this is not a recipe for cleanliness. Specifically, not a clean butthole.

Back to my best friend Astrid. The one with ‘ the farm ‘ . Where her cousin, who’s name is ‘ Nacho ‘ – yah, that one – grew up playing polo. ‘ Uuuye stoopee’d ‘Mericans ‘. She is so right. Not just stupid. But funky. I mean come on. Did I mention how hairy I am? Yah… so I’m one of those guys with a hairy butthole. And yes. I’m also that guy, who was once a growing teen, with less than engaged or evolved parents, who took exactly zero time or energy to explain to me just how disgusting – albeit common – it is to have dingleberries. And we were a Charmin house. So those dingleberries – they were big. And nasty. And they were not white.

Dingleberries? You don’t know what a dingleberry is? We’ll save that for the next Blog post.

Oh… ‘ Uuuye stoopee’d ‘Mericans ‘.

Astrid, with her husband, and there-then-one-remaining-growing-late-teen [ yes, three Italian/Argentinian boys equals three hairy buttholes], have moved to Barcelona now. I miss her horribly. Among so many things she’s loving about this new chapter in Spain is the fact that their home has a bidet. Wait, not just one – but three!! Yep three bidets. Those are some clean buttholes in that house. And not a dingleberry to be found. Even with the cushiest softest rolls of Charmin stacked toilet-side waiting for their cuddling wipes. [ Qeue giggling baby bear ].

I share with her that we are seeing an uptick in popularity and installations of bidets here in The United States. Largely in the Millenial age range. Is this somehow tied to all that coddling helicopter parenting they received by my backward behaving peer set who believed a participation award could ever amount to anything? Maybe it actually has. Maybe participation awards are tied to clean buttholes. Just think. Perhaps, just maybe – the CDC can endeavour its next 3 trillion dollars in taxpayer funding into paying for research to suss out if there is a connection between helicopters and pink buttholes. Just think. Maybe if we had all had clean buttholes, Covid19 may have come into better control and much sooner. And instead of living with dirty, dingleberry framed buttholes running from the viral boogeyman, we could have lived Covid and vaccine free, with clean, soft, pink, squeaky clean, Fabreeze perfumed exit ways for our poop.

We can dream…

I’m remodeling two bathrooms in my primary residence right now. And I’m including two bidets. One for me. And one for my son. Who will be diving head long into puberty sooner than I can imagine. Maybe I’ll sequence it right and get the shitting and showering and shaving in the right order. But no matter… he will have a clean butthole. As will I – at 52, and finally!

Buttholes.

Whether its alimentary or elementary, let’s come together and make sure they’re clean.

Ask your Interior Designer, today, for information on the latest trends and technologies in bidet design.

Because you, your family and loved ones deserve to have clean buttholes.

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