Whose Ass Is It Anyway!

Greetings, earthlings.

I am Shattaf ibn Blast, your humble but ferocious backside bidet pipe, stationed loyally beside every porcelain throne across the Emirates. My mission? Cleanliness. My method? Well....

Now, for most of the year, I am a gentle soul. A loyal servant. A refreshing spritz. But come summer...ah...summer: my inner demon awakens. I become something else. Something... diabolical.

As temperatures outside soar past 50°C, the water in my metallic veins transforms into liquid magma. And I wait; silently. I wait for the next unsuspecting victim to stroll in, phone in hand, unaware that they are about to be branded in regions best left unnamed.

The scene of the crime.

It's always the same. They squat. They reach for me casually, almost cockily, like I'm just a tool. And then they press my lever.

BAM!

The scream is silent, but I hear it. Oh, I hear it in their soul.

You can tell by the way their legs jerk mid-air. Their eyes widen, pupils dilate. In that moment, they remember every regrettable life decision, every ex, every unpaid mawaqif fine, and the lyrics to a song they haven't heard since 1984. Sometimes I even trigger flashbacks of kindergarten naptime or a traumatic goat encounter in rural Idukki.

After our first encounter, sitting down becomes a negotiation. They hover. They wince. They pray. Some try to test me with a cautious pre-spray, aiming elsewhere. I chuckle.

'Oh, now you want to be friends?'

But it's too late. The damage has been done. They have been initiated.

By the third encounter, they approach me like a bomb disposal technician. Elbows bent, eyes squinting, breathing in patterns taught only to yoga masters and war veterans. They treat me with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ceremonial swords or 'Varak'. (Google that, baby)

Some have even started whispering sweet nothings to me.

'Easy, habibi. Easy'.

One man brought a towel and oven mitts. I respect that.

Word spreads. Guests from colder countries walk out of the bathroom with a limp and a few cuss words. Kids look at me with a mixture of curiosity and inherited trauma. I am no longer just a pipe. I am a rite of passage.

You may curse me. You may scream without sound. But know this: I don't want to hurt you. It's just....the sun. It gets into my head. Literally.

So this summer, dear humans, remember: don't underestimate the Shattaf. I am not your friend. I am not your enemy. I am....a scalding test of character.

Handle me like a grenade. Because, in a way....I am one.

With boiling regards,

Shattaf ibn Blast