These are the cracks of your ass
As we enter the hospital, I notice that the restraining belt around my waist has somehow managed to slink my pants down my ass just far enough to reveal the tip of its crack. My shirt has been pushed above the belt, so the tip is just there, for everyone to see. "Is my ass showing?" I ask the cop. "A little bit dare" he responds. "Uh," I say, "could you maybe like pull my pants up or my shirt down for me?"
Officer Badenov/Wiggum uses his entire two years of vo-tech education to deduce that this must be some great plan I've came up with to escape. "I think you can deal with that once you're admitted," he tells me. Great. If there's one thing worse than walking through a hospital with a restraining belt, chains, and handcuffs, it's walking through a hospital with a restraining belt, chains, handcuffs, and the tip of your ass-crack showing.
It is a well-known fact that NO ONE has a nice looking tip of an ass-crack. Sure, the person may have a perfect ass, but if all you're looking at is the tip, it's the most disgusting thing this side of the lone turd left floating in the toilet at the local McDonald's. I hate lone turds. They're freshly squeezed from right below the tip of an ass-crack.
From experience I can tell you, if you didn't already feel like a lone turd, as it was, due to attention being drawn to you by looking like a damn convict in chains, your exposed ass-crack-tip seals the deal. Every nurse we pass looks down to see my cuffed hands, and then looks down, once again, to see that horrible little tip of my ass sticking itself out of my pants, as if to catch a view. "Are you sure you can't at least pull my shirt down?" I ask the cop again, after I notice at least 5 hot women staring, in an unflattering manner, at my little ass-crack-tip. "No," he says, without a bit of sympathy in his voice.
We walk down what must be 3,000 flights of stairs. My fever is getting worse, and my blood-pressure is so high, I feel like a human pressure-cooker. A human pressure-cooker with an exhibitionist of an ass-crack.
Finally, we arrive at the zany place where I am to spend 72 hours. I look to my right, which is the teenage ward, and see a bunch of young nuts staring out at me and making faces. One of them, a female, nonetheless, points at the tip of my ass and laughs hysterically. Like the tip of her ass has hallucinatory powers enabling it to convince society that it is the most beautiful thing ever to grace this humble world. I hope she's one of the minors getting boned by horses in Officer Badenov's illegal videos.
I'm startled out of my thoughts of an aging teenager stuck in an insane-ward her entire life by a booming voice asking "what is your business?" I look around to see where the voice is coming from, but can't locate any speakers. I do see about 5 cameras staring down at us. I'm extremely tempted to say, "pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," but, for once in my life, I actually restrain myself. "I'm Officer Badenov and I'm here with Alex Sandell from Alexandria. He's on a 72-hour hold." I wait for the mysterious voice to say, "you may pass," but instead a large, metal door opens.
The usher smiles at me and my friends as he holds open the door. "You guys are really looking forward to this, huh?" "Yes," I respond, hopping up and down in anticipation. "Can we still get the front seat?" my friend Scott asks. The usher cannot hide his amusement over our enthusiasm. "If you hurry," he tells us, "I think you can find a few seats left in the front." We run through the open door and . . .
There is another gigantic metal door; this one more ominous than the first. Once again the officer must identify himself, and the person in his custody (me). They say it will be a minute or two, while they check if I have really been ordered to stay there. They remind us that they can see us, and if there are any sudden movements, "security will be alerted." I'm tempted to make a break for it, yell out, "I did not kill my wife," and jump off a flowing dam just to see how good their security actually is. I figure that I've already gotten enough bruises, and stand in my place (plus, there doesn't seem to be any conveniently located dams, and I don't have a wife).
As we wait, Badenov tells me that he ordered "lots of security," and that I "will probably be sedated immediately." I ignore his scare-tactic, ultra-paranoid bullshit and hope for the best. Suddenly there is a loud buzz and the next door opens.
We get the front seats we so eagerly desired. We're overjoyed. Seeing the dragon this close-up is going to be the best thing ever. The elderly usher walks up to us and asks if we'd like some Junior Mints, "on the house," we are amazed as he hands us a big box. "No matter how scary it is," he tells us, "at least the good guy always wins in the end." "Yep," I agree, "that's how it works."
The pig and I walk through the door. There is one nurse and one orderly standing there. No security. "I told you this was a wild one," says the thwarted cop defiantly, "why isn't there any security?" "I don't think he can do us much harm with all the chains and cuffs you have him in," says the nurse. The nurse then proceeds to ask me a few questions:
Why are you here?
Because I like good movies.
Do you think you should be here?
No, but does anyone?
Good point. What do you mean by "because you like good movies?"
It's a long story, and you'll get to hear it.
I can't wait.
Yeah, it's a real cliffhanger.
"He doesn't seem like too much of a 'wild one' to me, officer," she says to Badenov, "I don't think we need your assistance anymore." "Should I take the restraints off of him?" Badenov asks, timidly. "I don't think he needed them on in the first place," she informs him, "please remove them, and then leave us, your assistance is no longer needed."
"At least the good guy always wins in the end."
Badenov reluctantly removes my restraints. It's obvious he thinks it's a bad idea. I shake the nurses' hand, and greet her assistant. It's evident to both of them that I pose no threat whatsoever. Porky was full of shit. I pull up my pants and gain back a bit of my dignity.
Score one for the good guy.
To be continued
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