Why me?

Don't you hate it when you wake in the middle of the night and feel nature's call? You're so comfy-cozy in your blankies you don't want to get up so you ignore it. You drift off and suddenly realize you've had an accident, and you yell, "Damn, I just pissed myself."

The upstairs neighbors hear you through the vent and call some 24-hour social-services hotline because they think you're neglecting an elderly person and 10 minutes later two goody two-shoes show up at your door and demand to inspect your house. You tell 'em to get the flip out and start educating them about how they'll fit in perfectly when Obamacare takes over and Stalin's granddaughter is hired to run all the death panels and Medicare will be administered by illegals.

The goody two-shoes get all "scared" and call 911, so five minutes later two cops arrive and you say, "Goddammit, how many flippin' PAL pancake breakfast tickets do I have to buy to keep you bastards out of my house?" And they say "Calm down, sir" and start to look around and you tell them to take Goody Two-Shoes One and Goody Two-Shoes Two get the flip out so you can clean up and go to sleep.

The cops get all "defensive" and zap you with Tasers. You start flailing and twitching and one of your arms knocks over the pitcher of margaritas you made last night while you were sitting at your laptop writing letters to the editor about the Second Amendment and how Thomas Jefferson would have blown the head off of anybody who tried to take away his musket, and some of margarita drippings fly into the laptop and it explodes and all of sudden you have Windows 7 Flambe.

The sparks light up all the pizza boxes and newspapers and restraining orders on your dinner table, so the cops call the fire department and 10 minutes later your 15-year-old daughter is exchanging Twitter addresses with this big old hippie firefighter whose tats tell you he's on prison release.

You demand the firefighters get the flip out of your house, but then the cops cuff you and take you to the jail ward at County, and while they're booking you for arson and resisting arrest and all that b.s. you start screaming at the nurse to get a lawyer in here before it's time for the death panel. Then some big dude walks in with a stack of rubber gloves and starts doing full cavity searches and gives you some b.s. about "standard procedure."

Dude does you a favor and finds that baggie of crank you "misplaced" last time the cops came to the door, but he takes the baggie and two weeks later you're in a courtroom and some DA says something about taxes that weren't paid and a letter you wrote to Pelosi telling her to go back to Italy, and then they send you away, and when you realize you now have two "strikes" you piss yourself again.

I know I hate it when that happens.