It’s a two hour drive back from Michigan, and with my affinity for falling asleep in moving vehicles, I usually munch on a bad of Flaming Hot Cheetos to keep me alert enough to prevent me from plowing into a random Volkswagen.

And when I say “Flaming Hot Cheetos,” I don’t mean that wimpy Frito-Lay stuff. What I eat is a nice local brand from Vitners whose extra-hot cheese curl is potent enough to kill a kitten at the slightest lick.

Yesterday, on the ride home, I ate two bags of it.

A very bad idea.

Every morning when I come into work, the first thing I do is take my morning dump. Today was no different … except for the fact that it burned like hell. It was like shitting magma, every drip and clump searing my supple rectum.

I would have screamed had it not been a public restroom. I had to settle for crying silently as I forced out the fiery feces for the next fifteen minutes.

I looked in the toilet bowl afterwards, and my feces was literally glowing red from all the flaming-hot powder that once coated the cursed cheese curls.

Or maybe it was just blood. I don’t know.

Let me tell you, sitting through an eight-hour work day wasn’t quite as pleasant after that. It was like sitting for four-hundred and eighty minutes on an ashtray with one of the cigarette butts smoldering up my own butt.

Right now, I’m slightly afraid that I might have popped something down there. Volcanic crap can do that to a fellow. Unfortunately, I haven’t a tube of Hemmorid to slap on for relief.

When I turned 23, I honestly didn’t feel that much older. But having to stop by the local drug store to purchase your first tube of hemorrhoid cream tends to change that.