Constipation Hell Worse Than Perdition

Less than twenty-four hours after dashing off a poem explaining why i wanted to die found me experiencing physical duress vis a vis, a bowel movement wherein waste unable to expel from the anus of this guy which bout with rectal obstruction found me doubled over with lower abdominal distress whereby comfort found me unable to lie down nor sit upright (with back padded with pillows against the cellar brick wall), thus severe bloating a bonus well nigh and managed to muster the means to bare frigid arctic vortex aire to purchase the Acme brand Metamucil, which akin to Drano doth ply thru the excretory tract supposedly loosening the stools, which optimism (product didst earn claim to fame) generated a sigh if that expressed intent to cease LivingSocial would try humph enjoining this lvii year old married male to cede victory to the grim reaper, who would vie as winner de jure to this common fellow invoking libretto ohm resistant understudy waste not want not allowing, enabling and providing relief, without successful defecation despite the oppressive urge to bolster this Uriah heap of balled up and tuckered out five foot and ten inches of lovely bones thence mouthing retraction of former thought to cease existing though a non-bull lever in any power broker qua mankind relief at long last provided posterior answered prayer yet, this scrivener scrutinizes his recurring pain in the ass jagged torture and asks a rhetorical one word question "WHY"?