Stanley pulled his buzzing phone out of his

Stanley pulled his buzzing phone out of his pocket. "Yellow?"

- that is, unless you're too yellow." That caller was getting awfully personal. Stanley simply flashed his pearly whites, which only made Rose madder. "Navy St Bridge, now!"

Just then Jason, the sound engineer, ran into the booth and yelled that the caller was in the building and heavily armed with more than just rhetoric. Stanley needed to get off th

e toilet and make sure he wiped himself really well. The sound engineer hated the smell of rotten eggs in the studio. Then the caller broke in wielding poisoned chopsticks and

the chemical concoction of the poison and the sulfurous expulsions still lingering in the causeway created an implosion which collapsed the radio station in on itself. All seemed

to be lost, but as they smoke cleared, Marty Clore, the radio station intern, crawled from the wreckage, dragging a smoldering transmitter and mic.

We ran to her. She pushed the mic into my hands. "Talk," she said matter-of-factly. I was impressed by her grit. She was right. Even an intern knew I had to break the news to the

the world: "My fellow Americans," I said into the mic, my voice resonating with pathos "the long wait is over. My constipation has officially ended!" The news hit the nation like a

shit storm (no pun intended). American entrepreneurship created commemorative toilet paper, laxatives, and corn cobs. A new national anthem rose: The Bathroom Hymn of the Republic!