I am preparing to wage The Mother of All Assaults on my constipation. I am broadcasting this because based on the conduct of the American military command, who told everyone and their balls that the U.S. was going to attack Fallujah, I now believe it is the proper protocol to give my enemy (my intestinal track and my rectum) fair warning that the fury of hell is headed their way. Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em, boys.

I will soften the command and control center of my constipation with the special forces of dietary overhaul. I had fish tacos with lots of black beans at lunch today, and I have drunk enough water today to create a man-made lake right there at Evans World Headquarters.

Once those initial targets are neutralized, I’ll call in the cavalry to finish the job. The cavalry in this case is the ammo I bought this afternoon: stool softeners, laxatives, milk of magnesia, high fiber cereals, Metamucil, a plunger, a 100-yard garden hose, a weed whacker, four fence posts, a large blue plastic tarp, a box of steel wool, a mule, a GPS tracking device, three rolls of duct tape and two day laborers I picked up in front of The Home Depot. How do you say “Get down! She’s gonna blow!” in Spanish?

This offensive is being launched now because the enemy is growing too strong, too resolute, too absolutely rank to let it fester any longer. Constipation means hard stools, which means gas, which means public scorn. Were this problem given any more life, I would be banished to the backyard with Weak-Bladdered Dog, where I would drink from a stainless steel bowl and scratch at the back door when I was ready to come in for the night.

Of course, war is not waged without casualties. There will be no McGriddles for a while, and probably no Starbucks banana loaf cake either. The day laborers may not be seen again and their families may be left to wonder what became of them. I hope they are able to take solace in the fact that their loved ones perished fighting for a noble cause. That cause: my ability to evacuate my bowels like a normal human being, without the pity of the man in the stall next to me, without the desperate squeezing of noses by the people next to me at the fish taco place, and without Hot Wife’s ongoing requirement that I take my stinky ass out of the bed and go sleep on the couch.

As we prepare for battle, we recall the rally cry of the American armed forces: "Ours is not to question why. Ours is just to do or die. Or smell really bad."

(I added that last part myself.)

To the special forces and the cavalry, I wish you Godspeed. And to the enemy, I admonish you to get out of my ass so I can flush you like the shit that you are.