Don’t laugh. I might have run into trouble with the cops recently. It’s nothing to be excited about, mind you, and as soon as my mean-ass editor helps me get all of this sorted with the authorities I’ll be in the clear.
Oh, get your minds out of the gutter.
It all started innocently enough. My doctor, a rather tall ginger with a mustache screaming “I own a snowblower,” informs me it’s time to check the ol’ plumbing. “You’re not getting any younger, Chris,” he said, handing me a prep kit apparently designed by sadists at a laxative convention. The instructions? Take three Dulcolax and wash them down with a gallon of what looks and tastes like Satan’s Gatorade and spend the next twelve hours regretting every life decision that led you to this moment while hugging your toilet like the porcelain throne it is. Continue reading
