from one asshole to another

Gonna move from this eighty year old two room wood shack in Florida to a cement block (don't know if more than one room) corrugated tin roof chateau in the Philippine jungle.  
 
(Yeah, I seen pics of it)  
 
The stove is outside under an awning. You put sticks in a waist high concrete box, start the fire, and lay a grate over the flame.  
 
Not exactly the point of this ditty.  
 
No electricity. Want light at night? Kerosene lantern (if kerosene is affordable).  
 
Running water? There is a stream on the property. No one has died from drinking it. That I know of.  
 
Then there is the toilet (if you didn't know I was gonna go there you don't know me).  
Actually, in rural living (Rural! Jesus Christ, Nick- this sounds one step from living under a tree!  
Tranquillo, Mr. Pierce, people in these parts been doing more with less or nigh on to three thousand years) this area is referred to as the 'comfort station'.  
 
When I was in an Amazon Jungle town the can was a pole in the back of the house's yard. It had a squat shielding cloth hanging from it. You poked a depression in the earth, filled it and bumped some dirt onto it. One guy called it 'Cat Hole Style'.  
 
Ahh, but there is the question of the wipe.  
Any outdoorsman will tell you to use a leaf (Nick , how do you know which leaf to use?  Elementary, Pierce- you use the one your finger don't poke through).  
 
I, however, have a slightly different plan.  
I got a lot of books. Enough to crush one of them cute little smart cars.  
But I can't take all of them. Everything has to be up a mountain path walked in. Half a day of footin' it.  
 
So I'm only takin' my Bukowski stuff.  
Guy wrote more than forty five tomes.  
Figure I got a copy of most of them.  
 
And as I read a page for the last time, OUT LOUD- SHOUTING IT TO THE GREEN, THE CRITTERS, THE SKY, you can be sure I will be knowing a special kind of gratitude that Charles got hisself published.