Bless me, Father, for I have traveled. It has been five days since my last use of a toilet without a heated seat.
Japan…you know I love you. From your stupidly complex rail system that puts the London Underground to shame, to your stunning shrines and landscapes, to your private karaoke booths, you are perfectly eccentric and lovely. But you have issues, Japan. Issues with warmth.
Believe it or not. I am just fine with sitting down on a toilet seat that doesn’t feel like another warm-blooded human being has only just recently vacated it. And don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the sounds of rushing water and chirping birds that accompanied my restroom visit in Disneyland, but are all these things really essential in life? Will my thighs disown me and run off to join the circus if I sit them down on a regular toilet seat that isn’t at optimum temperature, accompanied by soft jazz and the sounds of nature?
No, they will not. Because your heated seats are creepy. My ass is hot enough without your help. Double entendre intended.
Hot bottled vending machine drinks, on the other hand…why exactly are these not a thing in Canada? ‘Cause dang…good job on those.