The Toilet from Hell

There come times in every young man's life when he is confronted with a terrible moral dilemma, to overcome which he must bring to bear all the considerable moral training his values-neutral Australian public school education has given him. Some moral conundra - for example, what to do when a chinese lady bursts into one's hotel room offering group sex with virgins for $20 - are so trivial as to be well beneath the prodigious skills that the aforementioned training in irreligious moral relativism grants one. Some moral dilemmas are so great, however, that one cannot bear under them alone and must share them with as many friends as possible. I now find myself faced with just such a dilemma, the terrible proportions of which cannot escape the kind thoughts of my distant interlocutors. Here I sit, holding in my (virtual) hands photographic evidence of the existence of Satan himself, but I am unsure whether to share it with you, my dear friend. This photograph is of Satan's own Commode, the very gaping maw from which he drew Judas' 30 pieces of silver (having dumped them in there first, of course); it is a perfect representation of the watery tempest in which the Spear of Destiny was washed after its first terrible use. Even though I feel in my very gut the urgency of telling my dear companions about this most amazing of discoveries, I am also aware that many of you may read this post soon after you have eaten dinner, or upon first reaching work, where not only will it cause you to lose your breakfast, but will also completely ruin your workday. Pity only can spare the sanity of those who view this photograph before going to bed - not for nothing do dark dreams of monsters in the water closet lurk in the primitive mind of all men, I have come to realise. Yet I must share with you the terrible apprehension of doom which the mere sight of Beelzebub's Bidet has inspired in me. Surely when (in) Conveniences such as this are placed on the earth, our Final Judgement - that Fateful Day - must be nigh upon us. Should I spare the lash or share the rash? This is my terrible moral dilemma.

Of course, I chose to take that path which grants me the most fame rather than that of rectitude, and so I here present to you the first and only photograph ever taken of Belial's Bog, along with a detailed description of its terrible features. Those of you weak stomachs (or bowels!), those who have just eaten, and those of you prone to bad dreams, had best avoid reading this post, and perhaps return to my blog in a week. If you were foolish enough to skip the first paragraph of this post on the assumption that it was stuffed full of prolix rubbish - well, you were right, but now you may pay for your sins! Always read my posts from the very start! Those of you who feel that a glimpse into the very depths of hell might affect your weak morals, bringing on a dizzy compulsion to murder and sin, please do not view this picture, for when you do you will find yourself staring into the heart of the Abyss, with all the terrible rewards and tortures that it promises. Tread carefully, lest the knowledge prove too compelling!

So with this warning I present to you: the toilet from hell. Other posts on my blog will give you some perspective in time and place for my discovery of this horrid, dank hole, so in this email I shall restrict myself to a description of the Mouth of the Beast itself.

Those of you who read my emails last year will recall my description of the daintier forms of Japanese toilet, and the myriad ways in which they represent the pinnacle of civilisation. You may recall that the range of toilets presented therein represented great proof of that old cliche that Japan is a fusion of the old and the modern. It is possible to find right next to the luxury toilet with seat-warmer, bidet, violet under-rim back-lighting and self-raising seat, an old-fashioned squat toilet. The latter is generally cleaner than its Chinese variant, but only so much can be done with such a thing. Satan's Sump represents an entirely different fusion of the modern and the ancient. Herein we find a combination of whirlpool jet, combined with the most abject mould, grime and filth, and a complete inability on the part of the designer to comprehend the daintier aspects of the human condition. Or at least, we would conclude that the design represented a deficiency in consideration of the needs of ordinary mortals, if we did not realise that the designer was that ultimate connosieur of the Abject, the Prince of Darkness himself.

So we move to a discussion of the fine details of this terrible device. First we note that the bowl is black, which has made the photograph difficult to peruse - but so the Prince of Darkness hides his wicked designs, and there is no mortal camera work which can penetrate the gloom which surrounds this waterfall. Note that even the deep black of the bowl is insufficient to hide the grime, mould, grease and ill humours collecting thereabouts - they are such a lurid brown that they seem to glow from within the toilet bowl. In the midsection of the rim, on left and right, you will see what appear to be teeth protruding into the bowl. These are actually the nozzles for two powerful water jets, the spurt from which can be seen spiralling into the bowl. These water jets are constant, my friends, not a consequence of my having hit the flush button. There are no buttons on this toilet, merely a vicious, toothy aperture into which ones basest offerings merge with the flow of evil. I ask the ladies reading this (if they have not fainted on sight of the picture) - would you settle your delicate and sweetly-fragranced nether regions onto this cascade of decay and festering evil? I ask my male readers - would you dangle your most valued extremity wilfully into this ferocious gap? (Bear in mind as well that the picture gives no sense of scale, and the bowl is actually rather small...). What need has Satan to send his insidious agents scouring the land for the souls of the weak, when by means of these toilets he can snatch off the heart of their manhood, and have it swirl straight into Hell? What worth a man's soul, when he has been castrated by the Devil's Dunny? I would wager that this toilet has never felt the cold, hard pressure of a man's firm buttocks; nor has it ever known the warm and soothing pleasure of a naked lady in its lap. No, this is a toilet for snipers and grenadiers, one to be pierced by accurate shots from afar, or bombarded from a safe distance with the aid of carefully placed forward observers ...

I have only seen one instance of this Davy Jones Locker in all my time in Japan, but its presence, and the noxious atmosphere of evil which surround it, have led me to a terrible realisation. It is said that Satan presents himself in the guise of Light, coming to those who least suspect him as a delicate maiden or sweetly fragranced sheep, and telling truths with the intent to decieve; and as this toilet is a clear representation of Satan's most direct and evil countenance, perhaps then those other, sweet smelling and eternally pure toilets which I had the pleasure of experiencing in Hiroshima were actually also his agents, stealing my manhood with their gentle ministrations. You will recall my fear of their rising waters...

I am now as a man who suddenly wakes to find himself surrounded by the messengers of his greatest foe, seeing everywhere agents of his enemy ... what should I do when even at my most vulnerable I cannot be sure if I deal fairly with the works of men, or engage in intercourse with servants of Hell ... oh help me, gentle reader, for I am lost in a land of strange artifices, and my soul itself is their fuel!!!!