Don't piss on my back and tell me it is raining.

Don't piss on my back and tell me it is raining. I'd rather know if it is piss or not. I don't want the doubt. If your balls aren't big enough to keep me down though, your ass is

in for a world of hurt for pissing on my back. Oh, it is raining. Nevermind then. I just thought it smelled like piss. Yeah, I guess it was more than just one guy could have peed.

Well the rain sure smelled like pee, because it turns out it was acid rain. I was already becoming incredibly brain damaged. I fell asleep in the intoxicating rain. When I awoke,

a stray dog was having sex with my leg while an apparent vagrant with access to high end audio-visual equipment recorded it. "Woof". I said. I need to make some changes.

Dr. Phil turned out to be most attentive, even asking after my absent husband, especially as to when he usually returns from work. Then he said most issues stem from being dressed.

"Dressed? You mean stressed..." I repeated. "Being dressed," reiterated Dr.Phil, "is the root of all your problems." He looked at me expectantly. I gulped, turning to the camera.

I saw my reflection in his obnoxiously bald head as I stripped down to my pantyhose & beer hat. "There, there..." said Dr.Phil soothingly. "Don't you feel better? I know I do."

By this time, the date rape drug that Dr. Phil had slipped into my triple Vodka was wearing off and I saw him for the monster he really was. I stormed off his set, tossing my

pasties asilde like the orange rinds dipped in pudding that they were. Dr. Phil dropped his fig leaf of a doilly, displaying his tumescence to the viewers. I got a big settlement.