The prosecution is about to call their star witness to the stand -- a participant in the sex tape three way -- and I'd be lying if I didn't confess that I'm a pile of nerves!

You see, I haven't seen my Golden Goddess of Tinkle in several years. And I know, when I see her sitting there, her mouth opening and closing to talk and breathe, that I'll just want to pee on her so bad. All over her. But especially in her face.

It's like she's the last urinal on Earth and I'm the last overflowing bladder. You know those cartoons where the hungry guy starts imagining a big juicy turkey instead of a the person's head. That's how I feel, but instead of a delicious roast it's a big pink urinal cake. And not that circular bullshit that causes spray back -- nah -- the triangle slice of heaven, smelling simultaneously of bleach and stale urine.

It's not like I'm reckless either. No I specifically made a point to not drink any fluids for the last 24 hours to avoid temptation. No Cognac. No Cristol. Not even Jack. But I know my body; it'll find reserves somewhere. And those reserves will want to be deposited on the woman being questioned. Specifically on her face. Did I say that already?

I've been having a reoccurring dream of late. The city of Chicago is on fire like it's circa 1871, and I'm the only firefighter around. I grab my hose and start to put out the fire. But then I realize it's not really a hose I'm using, but my penis. And then the fire stops being a fire and it turns into these two chicks I know named Monica and Jade. Do you think it means anything?

Last time I got in trouble with an underage girl, I famously said: "Age is nothing but a number."

And isn't a number nothing but an abstract symbol -- a representation of a concept meant to make contextual sense of the physical world?

I mean, who's to say a number couldn't be a letter? Or a llama? Or even a large, endless stream of urine?

The defense rests your honor.