Moving into an excessively overpriced, 200 square foot apartment above a fishmonger may sound like any sane person's dream, but there are some hidden downfalls to it. Aside from the given scent of fresh herring and mackerel permeating through my creaky floorboards, there’s the issue of space. My “kitchen” (a microwave, one hot plate, and mini fridge) would make Illinois freshman moving into Garner Hall pity me. When it comes to my bedroom, I compare myself to Mary Kate Olsen’s husband, because we are both sleeping with a twin. Then there’s the bathroom.

As one half of my body was in the foyer, the other half was in the bathroom, folding towels and putting them under the sink along with my very expired and unopened long and girthy condoms. But under the maze of plumbing was a forgotten treasure from the previous tenant. Did thine eyes deceive me? No. It couldn’t be. A pristine bidet was sitting in front of me, still sealed in its cobalt blue packaging. The BioBidet BB-70 Simplet to be exact. I quickly pulled it from it’s permanent darkness, and tore into the box.

Never have I used a bidet, but I am a naturally inquisitive man, and that’s easy to see. I have had men come up to me in the disco club, only to ask me if I was curious. How did they know? It must have been written all over my face.

The installation process was a breeze. One thing I couldn’t help but to notice was the constant affirmation in the instruction booklet that this was NOT a heated stream that would be cleaning me. A heated stream? I really do hate to be crass, but that would without a doubt feel like somebody pissing in my ass. No thank you. I digress though; once it was firmly fitted, I took my seat, not knowing what to expect. Mind you, this is not post-defecation, as I only go about once every other week, and even then it’s primarily just blood. To be safe, I remove my shirt, only to see six, no, eight individual abdominal muscles looking back at me. The light reflects off of them due to the lack of hair. I smile.

I glance down to my right, next to my pale, thin thigh. The pressure gauge is looking back at me, almost taunting me. I know that if I don’t crank that pressure to max the first time, I never will. Reaching down to grasp the once untouched controls, close my eyes, and turn it clockwise until it can no longer be moved. I cannot verbally convey the following experience, so I created a (very crude) graphic representation to do the job for me.

It cleaned the back of my teeth. If there happened to be koi swimming at my feet, the passing layperson may confuse me for a cherub fountain on a midsummers day. I have no idea how to gauge PSI, nor do I know what PSI is, but I will take an educated guess and say it was well over sixteen thousand PSI. I had done the impossible and achieved the ultimate cleanliness, as pure as I will ever be. Clear of mind and of colon.

I look to the left at my half-full (optimist) roll of Scott and scoff. “Some other time”, I say under my breath as I place the pristine white one-ply into my closet, “maybe I’ll have a paper-mâché project in the future.”

FINAL RATING:

9.2/10

Pros: An unparalleled clean

Cons: Now want to try a heated stream