/ This post is in English; for the Chinese version review, please click on the link below）：-
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My Booty Got Baptized: A Stroke Survivor’s Hilariously Holy Encounter with DIKE’s HCF910 Smart Butt Throne
They say when one door closes, another one opens. In my case, when every bodily function gave up on me after my massive stroke, a toilet seat arrived like a celestial calling from the heavens.
It starts with a box. A gigantic, mysterious, hefty box at my doorstep. I stare at it like it’s a message from the gods. Or Amazon. Same difference. I don’t recall ordering anything this majestic. Did someone mistake me for royalty? Has the Universe finally decided to reward me for surviving death and diapers? I wrestle with the box like I’m in a WWE scene. It’s massive, and my cat thinks it’s a spaceship. It might be my rebirth. With a trembling, stroke-shaky single hand and a spirit high in curiosity, I slice open the cardboard coffin, expecting… I don’t know… maybe a chair?
But no.
What I find inside is no mere toilet seat.
It’s a portal.
A throne.
A butt-hugging, warm-blowing, foam-shielding marvel of modern plumbing engineering.
Ladies, gents, and fellow survivors of life‘s cosmic jokes, Behold:
The HCF910 Smart Sanitary Ware.
I kid you not; this thing auto-lifts the lid when I get close—like it senses my inner trauma and bows in reverence.
“You’ve suffered enough,” it says telepathically. “Let me cradle your buns in luxury.” It’s a feeling of pampering that’s hard to beat. Suddenly, I’m 38 going on a newborn. No effort is needed. Just approach, sit, and let my butt cheeks be enveloped by a heated seat so perfectly warm I briefly forget winter exists. The comfort is unparalleled, and the convenience is a game-changer. I toggle the multi-function dial like I’m launching a spaceship. One twist here, a beep there— and WATER SHOOTS OUT WITH THE GRACE OF A BALLET DANCER, massaging places I forgot existed. It’s like a genuine, loving massage from a man who doesn’t expect sex afterward.
Then comes the foam shield.
FOAM.
SHIELD.
As in—
A cloud barrier that blocks toilet splashback like Gandalf saying “YOU SHALL NOT PASS” to poop particles. Oh, and the nightlight? Mood lighting for my midnight dumps.
Soft. Ethereal. Poetic.
I’ve never felt more glamorous while peeing in the dark. Let’s talk about the warm air drying. Imagine your lower hemisphere being gently blown by a summer breeze from heaven. No more awkward toilet paper acrobatics. No more wiping like you’re prepping for war.
Just… dry.
Dignified.
Loved.
And if you’ve ever had hemorrhoids from hell thanks to the chronic laxative life— this baby’s got your back(side). Adjustable water pressure is so gentle it’s like being kissed by angels. Child mode for extra sensitivity. Massage mode because why not let my butt get a spa day? It even self-cleans its own nozzle. It’s cleaner than my ex’s conscience, and that’s saying something. I sit there, half-naked, full of joy, and emotionally overwhelmed. I used to cry from pain. Now I cry from sheer posterior pleasure. My toilet flips its own lid, senses my presence, sanitizes itself, and lights up like it’s serenading me.
It sees me.
It respects me.
It washes me clean like a sinless saint.
If you told me years ago that one day I’d cry happy tears over a toilet seat, I’d have laughed you into next week. But here I am— reborn through a toilet seat. Resurrected by rinsing. Transformed by temperature-controlled tushie TLC.
Final Verdict:
The HCF910 isn’t just a smart toilet. It’s a redemption arc, a redemption for every adult diaper, every hemorrhoid pillow, and every nerve-damaged bowel movement that made me question my humanity. Now, every trip to the bathroom is a celebration of survival. A butt-blessed festival of sanitary euphoria. 10/10. Would let it wash my soul again.
My name is Tanya. I survived a stroke, but I now live for my smart toilet. It’s a testament to the transformative power of technology. Who would have thought that a device I initially viewed with skepticism would become an integral part of my daily life? God bless tech. God bless this butt-throne.
Growing up in the Arabian deserts—yes, the real ones, not just a themed resort in Vegas—I was surrounded by gold-plated bidets and majestic thrones that sat next to toilets like royalty’s humble companion. But did I ever try them? Nah. Not once. Not even out of curiosity. Deep in my Taiwanese blood runs the ancestral wisdom of folding, wiping, and repeating until the tissue cries mercy. I remember staring at those bidets like they were UFOs: chrome, sleek, spouting water like a mini fountain at a spa… but aimed straight at your butt. A butt spa? Is that a thing? I never dared. Something in me-probably my grandma’s ghost whispering in Hokkien-said, “Wiping is cleaner, lah!”… I remember staring at those bidets like they were UFOs: chrome, sleek, spouting water like a mini fountain at a spa… but aimed straight at your butt. A butt spa? Is that a thing? I never dared. Something in me—probably my grandma’s ghost whispering in Hokkien—said, “Wiping is cleaner, lah!”
And then Japan happened.
Six months working in the land of robots, raw fish, and vending machines that sell everything from panties to ramen. The bathroom was where the genuine culture shock set in. I mean, forget sushi—have you seen their TOTO washlets? You sit down, and the seat warms like it’s whispering sweet nothings to your cheeks. A panel next to you blinks with buttons that look like they could launch a satellite. And the moment you’re done dropping off your emotional baggage, a gentle jet of water sprays you… right where the sun doesn’t shine. It’s like a surprise party for your posterior, and I was not ready for it.
Y’all, I am not gonna lie—I screamed.
Out loud. In a department store. Thought I triggered a self-destruct sequence. Who the hell designed this? NASA? Elon Musk?
And okay, maybe it’s “state-of-the-art,” maybe it’s “cleaner,” maybe it even sings you lullabies and folds origami with the leftover toilet paper; I don’t care—
WATER SHOOTING UP WHERE I JUST POOPED IS STILL WEIRD.
It’s like, “Hello!” That’s the crime scene. You don’t send a spa team in before the forensic crew finishes dusting for prints!
So, despite being raised in a land where bidets flow freer than soda and despite Japan’s throne tech that could probably detect your BMI from behind…
I remained loyal to my roots.
To the gentle fold.
To the toilet paper that never squirts.
To the humble tissue that doesn’t need a power source.
…until DIKE’s glorious HCF900 spaceship of a toilet seat landed in my bathroom.
But that, darling, is the beginning of another chapter…
I live with OCD. Not the cute, colour-coded closet kind. No. I’m talking hardcore, industrial-strength OCD—the kind where I’ll wash my hands until they turn into wrinkled prunes and go through three rounds of sanitizing the same doorknob just because my brain says, “One more time, for luck!”
Now, pair that with being Taiwanese, where we grew up believing that tissue paper is basically an extension of your hand. And baby, I abuse it like I invested stocks in Kleenex. I’m not even exaggerating when I say I go through an entire box of tissue paper a day—sometimes more. Sometimes, I take a fresh piece just to open the bathroom door. I fold it like origami, bless it, and toss it like it absorbed my sins.
But here’s the kicker: I was once an eco-warrior.
Yup. Back in school, I joined the Eco Club.
I planted trees, gave speeches about composting, and even wore those hideous “Save the Earth” buttons that dug into your skin but made you feel like a hero. I was that annoying kid who judged people for using plastic straws, yet fast-forward a few decades, and look at me now: a tissue-killing monster with a 5.0 body count in trees per week.
I live with guilt.
Real, heavy, climate-crisis kind of guilt.
Like every time I rip a tissue out of the box, I imagine a penguin gasping in horror. Somewhere in the Arctic, a polar bear sheds a single tear because Tanya couldn’t wipe her mouth with a reusable cloth.
So when this intelligent, eco-conscious, bidet throne of salvation showed up at my door, glowing like it had just descended from Elon Musk’s Mars colony,
a tiny part of me whispered:
“Maybe this is redemption.”
Maybe—just maybe—this is my way of saying sorry to the Earth.
Of finally making peace with the part of me that wants to stay clean… without killing the planet to do it.
I mean, think about it.
No tissue.
No waste.
Just water—clean, warm, soothing water—kissing my sins away.
It’s like being baptized by technology.
Like the toilet seat is saying, “I got you, boo. You can be clean and kind to Mother Earth.”
So yeah, this thing doesn’t just wash my butt.
It cleanses my conscience.
And that, my dear, is some holy-level hygiene.
