Our Tahoe cabin has an incinerator toilet manufactured by Incinolet. The toilet is actually kind of cool. You first press a button to start the heating system and then put a special purpose coated paper bowl liner (coffee filters just won't do) down between two sloping pieces of steel. This is the gateway to Hades. You then poo or pee into the paper filter, step onto a lever, and wave goodbye to your human by-products and any toilet paper. The gateway to Hades opens up and everything within a couple inches is sucked into its gaping maw. The toilet then incinerates your thoughtful gifts at a very high temperature. I'm guessing somewhere around 8,000 degrees Fahrenheit or the surface temperature of the sun, whichever is hotter. The manual says 1,200 degrees F. For those of you recipe freaks, that's 1,200 degrees for one hour, then cooled to 130 degrees over the next 45 minutes.
Check out the dramatic re-enactment of an encounter with an actual functioning Incinolet incinerating toilet that was captured in the wilds of an Olan Mills photography studio. Given the height of the seat, she's going to need those heels to perch comfortably. She is quite competently demonstrating the prep routine for a visit with a Carefree VII model.
Now get this, the end result of a good, solid visit to the amazing Mr. Incinolet is typically only about a teaspoonful of ash. Next time someone says you are full of shit, ask them if that is before or after incineration, because it really does make a significant difference.
The proud company president (he's got a Ph.D in physics) calms down a worried owner by not saying, "No, please don't try to retrieve your wedding ring until at least two hours after the burn cycle completes. It will be just fine, unless you're a cheap bastard and you got your ring out of a box of Crackerjacks."
While I think the Incinerator toilet is pretty cool, I was a little disappointed to read what apparently passed for testimonials in the marketing brochure. P.C. of Meneta, VA, provided the turgid prose, "I am pleased with the one I have for it works great." E.M. of Newcastle, WY, ostentatiously cries out to the world, "I am real pleased with my Incinolet." Wow. Those are very compelling stories, but they just don't convey the thrill that I experienced while watching this amazing device in action. And the pride of ownership.
Hmmm, the one-man service department looks like he could pass for one of Thomas Anderson's co-workers at CorTechs. That slouched down, glazed look is a common symptom of people tapped into the Matrix. This man has already forgotten more about incinerating toilets than you or I will ever know.
And take a look at the helpful looking staff. The mannequins at Macy's look livelier than this bunch. They really don't look much more responsive than the plastic potted plants against the wall.
Finally, I present the building that houses the crack research staff. This certainly does look like the kind of building in which Nobel prizes are born. Either that, or hardened criminals.
--All images courtesy of an Incinolet marketing brochure, circa 1987.--
Onward to Part 2, against your better judgment.