There was once a donkey named Derek, who loved to play in mud. On a hot summer’s day when the wind blew gently, and the grass was soft, this was when the donkey knew his mud bath would be best. Not too thick, not too thin, and superbly refreshing. He would bathe in it, and play in it, but when he was done, he would roll around in the grass to wipe it all away. Unfortunately, the mud stank bad. Like really bad. His friends didn’t have the heart to tell Derek, but his mother had better sense than most. “Derek”, she would cry, “you smell like Farmer Joe’s backyard barn.” “But Mom!!” poor Derek would cry, “I wiped it all away.”
But no, Derek did not wipe it all away. No matter how much he rolled in the grass, it was always mother’s bath that made it all okay. As Derek grew older, his donkey antics subsided, but those mud baths he loved so stayed with him. It was second nature—a necessity for every day. Do you get what I’m trying to say?
I dare say the introduction of Charmin Ultra Soft in 1993 was the next best thing since sliced bread.
Since the 19th century, we have been graced by the presence of toilet paper. I dare say the introduction of Charmin Ultra Soft in 1993 was the next best thing since sliced bread. Yet, no matter how strong it is, soft it is, or even how expensive it is, Charmin fails the same way the cheap stuff fails: the mud is never really gone. Now, some say that in fact it works great, just a little paper does the trick. I grant to you that since the introduction of toilet paper, bottom hygiene has grown immensely. In addition, some tell me that’s what a shower is for—to scrub it off daily. Others claim to have diets so pristine, so natural, that there is no mud at all.
But I ask you: Have you ever used your hand?
When I was 9, my mother took me and my two sisters to India. She wanted us to visit our family and, more importantly, to show us how little we understood of this world. The last time I had gone was 2006 (I can’t say I remember much from when I was 1), so I felt a strong sense of agreement with the whole affair. Of course, my mother was wrong; at 9 years old, I had figured out the dynamics of life around the globe, but that point is neither here nor there. About a month before our scheduled departure, my mother made us drink Dukoral in the mornings. When I asked her why, all she would say was that our stomachs were not ready for how that part of the world eats. What a horribly (seemingly) racist comment. Anyhow, time passed, Dukoral drank, and we were ready.
One of my first days in India involved a wedding in a smaller city near the village where we were staying. This is where my woes began. Though I felt culturally attuned to my ancestral home, I had no idea what I was in for. I should have known that the food was too good. My western stomach had been pampered and was horribly unprepared. Weddings in India are long affairs, and so eventually, like Derek, I felt an immense urge to “bathe in mud.”
In a firm sense of necessity, I found the bathrooms, and for a moment… a sense of relief. This relief turned to horror when I looked in the stall and saw, not a toilet, but a hole in the floor. Next to this commode was a Pyrex measuring cup—I had no idea why that was there. I don’t know why I didn’t check elsewhere; I should’ve run back to mom; I should have asked anyone; I should’ve prayed; I could’ve done anything. But I didn’t—I did what I did. My anxiety fizzled out: “It wasn’t so bad.” But then I looked for the toilet paper.
I learned much later that I was supposed to fill the Pyrex with water before doing my business. This was not known to me at that moment. In a word, knowing that monkeys throw their “mud,” that day I felt a little closer to my primate ancestors.
When it comes to our hands, a little “mud” (if you know what I mean) always gets washed; when it comes to the donkey, we’re okay with just a wipe in the grass.
So again, I ask you: Have you ever used your hand? The rest of that trip involved buying small rolls of toilet paper, but I learned an invaluable lesson that day. When it comes to our hands, a little “mud” (if you know what I mean) always gets washed; when it comes to the donkey, we’re okay with just a wipe in the grass. Why? I don’t accept that showers suffice. I don’t agree that diets are pristine. And I sure as “mud” don’t believe you when you say the paper works. All this to say that perhaps once Derek the donkey is done with his mud bath, he should quickly rinse off in the river. Maybe when we use the bathroom, we should all have bidets (nevermind the environmental or economical benefits of bidets that make them so much better than toilet paper). Some cry that they don’t want to give up the TP. Of course you shouldn’t! Having a bidet doesn’t mean we can’t have toilet paper. Teamwork makes the dream work. But the grass alone will never clean the donkey. And I know this, because after finishing my business at 9 years old, I realized that toilet paper wasn’t going to clean my very “muddy” hands.
