“Thanks to prescription Amitiza®, even chronically constipated people are blowing out their toilets every day.”

“Be-Beep! Be-Beep! Be-Beep! Be-Beep! Be-Beep!”
“Uh-ohhhh......” I say. “Sounds like that Amitiza® (“Am-uh-TEEZ-uh”) ad.”
We are quietly trying to eat our supper while the prerecorded news plays.
A delicate female hand switches off the alarm. 6:30 a.m.
Suddenly two tiny canine heads pop up, triggered by the alarm.
Blondie gets up and strides authoritatively into the kitchen in her white terrycloth robe.
Everything under exquisite control, installing pierced ear-rings on the fly, she inserts a presliced bagel into the toaster.
“Honey!” she trumpets.
Dagwood, still in bed, rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head.
Blondie then strides down the hall and into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
“Thanks to prescription Amitiza®, even chronically constipated people are blowing out their toilets every day.”
We hear the sound of a flushing toilet. (We are outside in the hall.)
“Oh, puh-leeze,” my wife always says at this point. “We’re trying to eat supper.”
Blondie dabs lipstick on her lips in front of the mirror — “mmmmm-wop!”
She then deftly pats the two tiny dogs on the head, at which point my wife always says: “We don’t want no love-pats. Take us for a walk.”
Blondie kisses Dagwood goodbye, and then squeezes his nose.
If anybody ever did that to me, I’d smack ‘em one.
“Woman,” I say; if you ever do that to me, I’m outta here.”
“You don’t have to worry,” my wife always says. “UGH!”
Bowels purged, Blondie strides into the glittering sunshine, out the narrow sidewalk of her southern Californy tract ranch, between plastical shrubs.
“LOOK OUT WORLD. MY BOWELS ARE EMPTY!”
I guess Dagwood stays home with the dogs.