While writing Internet comedy is my cool superhero job, my real world identity has seen me do some pretty shady things to make a buck. I worked at a Staples once. On purpose. Briefly. But other jobs required me to wear shirts and ties and to move about and interact with people in a human, normal way and not like a monstrous slave to a douche corporate leviathan run by sinister, greedy cave trolls.

One fine day while out and about on a job, I came to one of those nefarious stairways that serve to boggle the mind of travelers around the globe. A staircase of about four steps, each shallow and pointless and as wide as the mighty Mississippi. And the stairs were bisected by a metal banister forged by the hands of hell's own blacksmith.

They call him ... Larry.

Strutting along as I was, I didn't particularly notice the patch of water near the top of the step from errant rain, an impromptu floor washing or just a drooly fellow who had been standing there for too long. It doesn't matter why it was there, it was there. And I slipped on it. Like a wishbone on Thanksgiving torn between two slow-witted cousins, my legs went akimbo, each to one side of the banister. My testicles, wary of such blunt force trauma, quickly leaped to my innards. My poor, dumbfounded junk, however, had no idea what was coming for it.

I smashed the banister with enough force to cause me to yell, in an office building, the most fearsome string of obscenities I had ever set free. My wang bent like a hilarious twisty straw in a child's smoothie. Bent. What part of it bent? I don't know, whatever that stuff inside is that makes you have boners when it's not bent.

Gnome jelly?

You'll notice, if you have occasion to own a bent wiener, that a bent wiener is as useful as a Kardashian on the set of Jeopardy! On 364 other days of the year, this would barely be a problem, short of the painful urination and the twinge of anguish whenever something even close to arousal showed up, but as it happened, my Internet comedian's once annual sexing had just come up in the cosmic lottery.

Bent.

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Our art department is allergic to subtlety.

You cannot have sex with a bruised, bent wiener. You just can't. No matter how hard you try. And you will try so hard. The sad fact is that a steel banister is to sex what an angry raccoon is to bath time.

Normal sickness is just normal sickness and hardly worth writing about. To get to the kind of sickness that makes you reconsider being a sexual being at all and, more importantly, makes others reconsider you as a sexual being, you need a number of variables to fall into place at the same time, a perfect shitstorm, if you will. You're going to want to invest in a mild case of the flu mixed with some undercooked hot wings, and then try your hand at drinking a glass of milk followed by a glass of orange juice. Why would you do something like this? Because you're an idiot.

This is not the breakfast of champions.

Once you have all your ingredients together, basically all you need to do is mix them up in your intestines, lay down on the futon in someone else's basement as weakness and chills rack your body and wait for nature to say "Hey, why's your ass clenched so tight? Let's get to work back there."

The day you lose bowel control on someone else's furniture when you're neither drunk beyond belief nor a toddler is the day you realize that if anyone even agrees to be in the same room with you ever again you're a lucky fella.

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It's also the day you realize adult diapers aren't just for the elderly.

You would think that pair bonding is the sort of thing that leads to sexy feelings. You're in a relationship, you've seen each other naked, no one needs therapy or Gravol, things are good. You are wrong.

If the divorce rate hasn't convinced you that being in a relationship does not necessarily indicate any degree of happiness or sexual satisfaction, let it also be known that the wrong relationship can shatter your libido as surely as a banister shattering your crank.

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"I'm just pooping with the door open while flossing my teeth. Up for some sex?"

Obviously, determining that a relationship isn't working takes people some time (that's why there's so many piss-poor relationships out there), but a good sign you've grossly misjudged how things are going to work out for you is photographic evidence of excrement. Did I just make two entries in the same sex article about poop? Sure did.

Without being too explicit, I will tell you this -- I have been on the receiving end of an email that contained photographs of shit. The person sending me these pictures was neither my older brother nor a college buddy who thought this would be drunkenly hilarious. It was an ex-girlfriend who was, to the best of my knowledge, mostly female and everything.

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This is only considered romantic in Germany.

When a girl sends you a photo of her shit, complete with a story about how proud she was of said shit, it's time to be single. You will also question every sexual encounter you may have had up to that point and start wondering what other gross stuff may have been going on that you never knew about. Stuff that you may have gotten on you without even realizing it. Stuff that could still be in your house to this day, because who knows? How often do you scrub the ceilings? Stuff could be up there.

Any time sex and family cross paths, you can rest assured you'll be more interested in watching C-SPAN than porn for a day or two. You catch your parents humping, your grandpa insists he was only hanging curtains in the nude when he slipped and fell on that jar of peanut butter, whatever it is, it's never a good scene.

Sure, Aunt Gertrude, it was just time to feed the donkey and you forgot your nightgown.

When I was a teenager -- just around that age when you realize that you technically can't spend all day in your room treating yourself like an amusement park, but technically you could -- I woke up one day and meandered my way to the living room, probably stoked to watch some Food Network or whatever it was I did to pass the time in my teens. It was morning and no one else was awake yet, including my brother, who was passed out in a mostly sitting position on the couch.

Here's the part where normally I do some tense build-up to the hilarious pay off at the end of a paragraph, but I'll spare you the wait and tell you his dick was hanging out of a hole in his pants.

If you've never walked into a room inhabited by an unconscious family member whose genitals are protruding from a hole in their sweatpants, you hold that little nugget close to yourself and use it to comfort you at night. Take a moment, right now, it's OK.

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Thank God, and Seetharaman Narayanan for the crop tool while you're at it.

In order to continue this story, you need to know a little more about me. I went to university, I took philosophy and English, I was and maybe still am considered smart by any number of people. It's all built on bullshit. Lies and subterfuge. Ever since I was a toddler, I've been grifting people into expecting me to understand things when, really, I have no clue what the fuck is going on. I dated a girl who photographed her shit, for God's sake. And it's for that reason that when I walked into that room and saw what, to my eyes, looked for all the world like a wrinkled, shaved albino weasel that had just given up on life and passed out on my brother's leg, I just shrugged and sat down.

Like this, but slightly less unsettling.

About a half hour later, when whatever show I was watching ended, curiosity got the best of me and I turned on the sofa to take another look. And that's when I figured out what was going on. And that's when my soul just shook its head and wiped a tear away as my body ran its ass back upstairs.