So here goes.
Here, at long last, is what I, the Two-Time himself, the man, the myth, and the legend, the Back-to-Back 1993–94 Blockbuster Video Game Champion, the greatest gaming superstar of the entire universe—here, finally, FINALLY, is what, exactly, I’m a doctor of…
Oh man…
Shit…
I just felt a rumble in the ol’ tum-tum. A little jelly in the belly, if you know what I mean. A bubbling below deck. A rollin’ in my colon.
What I’m trying to say is, to use a technical anatomical term, I feel a case of explosive, raging, vengeful diarrhea coming on right now.
And it’s coming on in a way that is only a huge unfortunate coincidence and has NOTHING to do with the fact that I was just about to give Nigel the Editor exactly what he’s been so desperately, so pathetically begging me for since the beginning of our acquaintance.
It must’ve been the leftover chicken wonton tacos from App Lebeés I just ate. Or maybe it was the brewpub pretzels with beer cheese dip. Or the double helping of Neighborhood Beef Nachos™.
Or maybe it’s because all that food is over two months old. I don’t know, I’m not an expert.
But whatever it was—fuck. All right all right all right all right. Emergency-time-emergency-time! We got an emergent emergency emerging right now!!
So sorry, Nigel the Editor—I’ll be right back, just one sec, just gotta—
…
Whew! All right!
So yeah. As of right now, I am happy to officially report that all personal business is taken care of. I’m back in my top secret lab in front of my computer, and I am absolutely NOT currently sitting on the can typing this right now.
Of course not! How unprofessional that would be. How potentially destructive to the advanced Dell Inspiron laptop that’s totally NOT resting on my bare-naked Vaselined legs, just one false move from my entire un-backed-up book being lost, just like that!
No sir.
And now, just for Nigel the Editor, I’m back to that big, unanswered question, of what, exactly, I’m a—
Actually, hold up. While I’m definitely NOT typing this book while I sit on my black marble prototype Kohler KT-593261 with Experimental Turbo Flush™, there’s something I’ve been wanting to get off my chest. Seems like now is as good a time as any.
As every true Doc fan knows, I’m already on the record when it comes to the whole wiping-sitting-down versus wiping-standing-up debate.
I understand that this debate has torn families apart and divided our nation. I know that it’s more controversial than politics, religion, and the console wars. I get it.
But the Two-Time has never been one to shy away from controversy. I don’t flee from the shadows into the light, and I don’t hide from danger. I head right into that long, dark alleyway of fear and I keep on fighting.
So I have no problem saying to the world that I’m a wiping-sitting-down guy, and that anyone who actually thinks wiping their butt after they’re already standing up—
Sorry. It’s just such a ridiculous concept I had to laugh, and that chuckle most definitely did NOT make me squirt out another butt pee right now.
Anyway, if you wipe standing up, you’re nothing but a round-shouldered, soft-jawed, pudgy-gut loser, and that’s all there is to it.
My position on this is known, all right? I’m on the record.
But there’s something more I want to address. Something new. Something that’s come to light in a certain dimension—I won’t name names—because of a certain event called COVID-19.I
What happened is, we all got a little freaked out about the world’s running out of TP, okay?
I know that some of you—all of you—stockpiled five thousand rolls of Charmin and Cottonelle and Scott and Quilted Northern and even that weird no-brand shit that fell off a truck and cost $15 at the hardware store. And even after you got those five thousand rolls, you went onto Amazon and Walmart and Target and you tried to buy even more, except there was no more, so what did you do?
You freaked the fuck out! Then you went ahead and you bought a bidet, didn’t you?
Now every time you take your poop, instead of remaining seated and wiping your ass with TP like a red-blooded American, you let some creepy French or Japanese apparatus hose a jet of water directly into your bunghole.
I mean, have we completely lost it as a country? Have we forgotten honor, dignity, masculinity, and sacrifice? The beachheads at Normandy? The Boston Tea Party? The Declaration of Independence? Freaknik?
How can you possibly allow a foreign device to shoot water into your ass? Should we just start speaking German right now?
No, my friends, I’ll tell you how we can stay true to our school. And that’s by purchasing my brand-new, trademarked, patent-pending American bidet, SQUIRT, BY DOC.
That’s right. SQUIRT, BY DOC is the only bidet designed specially by the Nobel-winning scientists at my multimillion-dollar Top Secret Command Center to spray water into your sphincter in the most dignified, dominant, and American way possible.
I know, because I most definitely did NOT just use it to deep-cleanse my muscular, athletic butt after an insane bout of powerful, explosive diarrhea while I’m typing this at this moment.
To own your very own SQUIRT, BY DOC, go NOW to InterdimensionalChampionsClub.gg—
FUCK.
Hey, sorry, guys. I just got a ping from Nigel the Editor on AOL Instant Messenger, and I have a feeling he’s gonna be pissed. Oh man—I’m having a hard time not laughing and not butt-peeing again.
Anyway, I guess we got an official…
Real-Time Update
Yeah, so I checked my AIM, and here’s what Nigel the Editor wrote:
Doc: I am indeed sick of all this fighting and your total lack of respect for me and everything I do for you and literature in general. I’m quitting your book and going on a two-week vacation to Hong Kong. Forthwith, Simon & Schuster will connect you with a new punching bag—I mean editor. Yours never, Nigel the Editor
Well. It was just, like,
