I Tried to Use a Bidet. Emphasis on ‘Tried’.

Your fancy French ass shower does nothing for me.

Time To Read: 5 mins | November 18, 2016

(note: I had a major mental block about writing this. Not out of shame – I gave up on having that years ago – but because I couldn’t figure out how to spell the damn subject matter.)

I’ve known Dave for years. We met through fantasy football, the heterosexual equivalent of group dating, and over time I’ve become good friends with him and his wife. And while we occasionally do dinners and game day beers and the like, this relationship culminated – as all the best ones do – with weekly Game of Thrones parties.

It was mid-May 2016, and it was Dave’s turn to host the group. This was notable for two reasons: 1) the couple promised to make bison lasagna, which I conceptually understood yet never thought existed, and 2) Dave’s dad was in town and would be joining us.

Now, completely coincidentally and totally unrelated to our initial friendship, Dave’s father is Bob Crowley, who once won a television show that I’ve lost twice — a fact he never lets me forget. Other than that annoying habit, though, one of the nicest guys on the planet.

Bob had never seen Game of Thrones before, so half the fun of the evening was watching his reactions to HBO’s medieval fantasy porn. Anytime someone lost a head or a slave girl performed felatio on a prince, everyone looked away from the TV and laughed at the horrified 65-year old’s face. If you have the means, I highly recommend inviting Mr. Crowley to your next GoT viewing party.

Later, after the episode had finished, the night took an unexpected turn. One of our group returned from Dave’s bathroom with a confused look on her face:


“Uh, what’s attached to your toilet?”

Dave’s wife matter-of-factly responded, “It’s a bidet.” As if that cleared everything right up.

If you’re an international, you have to understand that bidets are massively rare in the U.S. I know what one is, sure, but outside a few try-hard chic hotels, I’d never actually seen one stateside before. So to hear this salt-of-the-Earth couple’s one-bedroom apartment had a fancy French ass shower was startling.

Turns out, there’s a tiny hose attachment you can install into a standard toilet, and the Crowley family is mad for them. The entire clan has them installed in every toilet they control from Los Angeles to Maine, and even man’s-man Bob loves rinsing his hind end with well-aimed shot of agua.


Dave very graciously offered to let me test his bidet. I declined, as the bison lasagna hadn’t run through me quite that fast.

But six months later, I was living in a large house in Mexico City run by European hippies, and there was a bidet in my bathroom. I’d stayed in the mini-hotel for over a week and, come my final night, still hadn’t tried the thing out.

It wasn’t for lack of necessity. There was something wrong with the taco cart on the corner, meaning I spent much of that week sitting on the toilet, lurking on Imgur. And 5 feet away, staring at me like an ignored puppy, was the standalone bidet, begging to be put to use.

Actually, if I were a bidet, I’d hope no one ever touched me. What a terrible job.

I left the experiment until the last possible moment. I was due at the airport at 5am, so was awake before dawn haphazardly stuffing clothing into insufficient bag space while debating whether or not to test Mexican TSA with a full-size bottle of conditioner. But while CDMX airport security may be sketchy, their toilets are likely doubly so, meaning one more trip to the fancy bathroom was in order.

I poo’d. I also wiped. I’m not sure that’s standard procedure – I forgot to Google ‘bidet etiquette’ the night before – but even if most people let the anal water fountain do all the work, the damned thing was on the other side of the room. That’s five feet of waddling & butt cheek friction. I’m not the most hygienic man, but I’m cleaning myself up a bit before making that trek.

I eventually stood before the second toilet. A marvelous sight I must have been, pants at my ankles and confused look on my face. There seemed to be too many knobs, so, still standing up and bent over the bidet, I twisted and pushed different things, until suddenly a little fountain shot right where my sphincter should have been.

But because it wasn’t, the water jet cleared the lip of the toilet and landed directly in my boxers.

Bidets are stupid, I decided, and so I waddled back to my bedroom, wet briefs still at my ankles, and tore apart my suitcase looking for a fresh pair. Foolish Crowleys.


photo: small shrine outside a run down office building, completely slaughtered with graffiti. mexico city 

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Malcolm Freberg
Malcolm Freberg
American writer living permanently on the road. Believes rye whiskey is superior to bourbon, Belle is the best Disney princess, and that selfie sticks should be snapped in half on sight. Hosted a travel documentary for AOL & played Survivor a few times.

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