By Jim McKelvy

Part of the fun of going to Tokyo is seeing the differences between common devices in our respective cultures. Japanese elevator doors close with the mechanical precision of a Swiss watch, and the subways are clean enough to make an operating room look like the grill at Waffle House.

Everything is spotless. In fact the Japanese are afraid of turds. I have yet to test my theory that you can rob a Tokyo bank with nothing more than some rubber gloves and a full pair of Depends, but I have noticed that there are no banks near shops selling bran muffins.

The limo arrives at Eric’s building and I glide up to the penthouse in an elevator where the only sound is my shoes creaking from the G-force. Eric gives me a quick intro to the apartment showing me where I am to leave my shoes, where I will sleep, and finally the toilet.

There are two levels of flush. One is a normal flush; the other is designed for people who have recently consumed half a kilo of red meat. I make a mental note of their relative positions, not bothering to ask about the litany of other controls, which look like they could remotely land a 737.

Eric leaves for work, giving me instructions on how to find his office and reminding me to make myself at home. I drop my luggage, grab an organic beverage, and then nature calls.

The Assmaster is at my service. Divining my need through some hidden sensor, the Assmaster activates a quiet exhaust fan, shines a dramatic (yet tasteful) spotlight into the bowl, and silently raises its lid.

This in itself is amazing. How does the Assmaster know whether to raise only the lid or both the lid and the seat? Perhaps there is some pheromone that the humans exude when they only need to pee? As with many things in Japan, I must accept the fact that the machine knows more than I do. For whatever reason, the Assmaster has correctly raised only the lid, and I obediently sit.

The seat is heated. I’m not talking about that icky residual heat from some prior occupant; this is purposeful, soothing warmth, just like the heated seats in Yo’s BMW limousine.

After the completion of my normal routine, I marvel at the Assmaster control panel. This is a dazzling array of buttons, LCD readouts, and an ominous looking dial. Unfortunately, everything is in Kanji.

Different cultures evolve language different ways. On one extreme, you have German, which creates new words by simple concatenation. For instance, the German word for fancy toilet that washes your butt is simply “fancytoiletthatwashesyourbutt.” Kanji, on the other hand, uses each character to represent each separate word. Many words, especially nouns, look like a tiny picture of the thing itself. Unfortunately for my present situation, Kanji evolved before the unified theory of ass cleansing had been published and the symbols do not resemble anything on my body.

I’ve been fascinated by buttons since I was a kid. My parents tell stories about how I would press the emergency stop buttons on escalators and baggage carousels. The sight of that big, red button conveniently hovering 8 inches off the ground was too much for my 3 year-old will to resist - much to the chagrin of weary passengers waiting to grab their Samsonite and leave. I must press a button, but which one?

The first two buttons are unintelligible Kanji characters. The third button in not kanji, but a pictogram of Marylyn Monroe getting her dress blown up by a sinister stream of dots. I’m not going anywhere near that one. The forth button appears to be a time-lapse pictogram of an ejector seat – I make a note to avoid that one as well.

I choose the first button largely because is had a less complex Kanji icon than the second. Since this is my first trip to Nippon Springs, I figure that less is more. I press the button, simultaneously satisfying my inner child and sending a warm stream of expertly-aimed H20 down yonder.

This is a new, weird, but not altogether unpleasant experience. After a period of time that I feel is hygienic but not self-indulgent, I press the button again.

Nothing.

I press the button several times, but it refuses to stop. Perhaps the Assmaster has some cleanliness sensor that knows when it is finished. I wait in the stream as theme from the Sorcerer’s Apprentice begins quietly playing in my head.

After a period of time that would satisfy an obsessive-compulsive surgeon, I conclude that I must terminate the session manually, so I try button two.

Button two is much more aggressive. In hindsight, so to speak, I’m certain one of its Kanji characters was the word for dingleberry. Translations notwithstanding, I’m now getting the sort of undercarriage cleaning that you pay extra for at the carwash.

With growing panic, I press Marilyn. This action shoots a bug-your-eyes-out stream of frigid water directly at my nuts, which respond by retracting like the landing gear of an F-15. Reason fails as I frantically search for a way out.

Perhaps the seat is pressure sensitive! If I can just stand up, maybe the thing will shut down. Putting my hand between my legs to deflect the geyser from saturating my friend’s silk wallpaper I attempt to stand and eventually end up in a position like a scoliotic yoga instructor.

It doesn’t work. The stream shoots forth like the demented love-child of a drinking fountain and a power washer. I hurl my body back down in defense of my friend’s interior décor.

Like the last button on the Wonkavator, there is but one choice left. I position my dripping finger over the ejection icon, close my eyes and press.

Would you sit on this? On second thought, don't tell me.

While my assertion about things working well in Japan is true, one must also remember this is the culture that evolved the gross-out reality show where hapless contestants sit in tubs of ice while trying to whistle through a mouthful of live cockroaches. In other words, they are not to be trusted.

I don’t know what I expected. My casual inspection of the commode did not reveal any serious mechanical or hydraulic actuators. Nevertheless, I half expected to be hurled from the toilet like a drunk on a mechanical bull. Instead, my beleaguered backside is greeted with a soothingly warm current of dry air. I’m getting my butt blow-dried!

After a period of time that I consider to hygienic but not self-indulgent, I recon that this is a good time to retreat and find some paper towels.

The Assmaster flushes itself, dims its light, and silently closes its lid.

Editor’s note: Jim’s story did not end here, nor happily. The very next morning after the above experience, he pushed a button on The Assmaster that was clearly marked (in Japanese) “Do Not Push This Button.” Jim could not file the story, for obvious reasons.

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The Koala and the Little Lizard Nonfiction