What a drip! Get it? 'Drip'?

The first day was nothing special. They used the old water **** on me. You know the one. They drip water on you one drop at a time until you go insane? Now, I'm not admitting to anything odd, "queer", you might say, but water is not the worst thing that's ever been dripped onto my face. Besides, it had been a long time since I'd taken a shower that wasn't golden, so it was pretty nice. Cold, yes, those meanies, but not bad. It worked out pretty well because just when my throat was getting raw from my many choruses of "Singin' in the Rain", I could angle my neck for a very slow drink.

From what I'd seen, the Doctor J would probably sit there watching what he hoped would be my decent into madness himself rather than just have a lackey stare at a monitor and scarf Thai food like the trendy little devil he is. Even if the water '****' was working, that would have kept me sane. I wish I could have seen his face when I yawned or asked for a rubber ducky.

Water **** for a week, or so it seemed, and it's getting old. Not driving me insane old, just annoying.

After another week, I was just bored.

"Yo, Doctor Dre! Howzabout some new ****, huh? This water crap is weak and besides, all gigolos have been trained to resist it. Which makes me think the Gigo-Guild knows about your monkeyshines."

"So, Mr. Wilson," said the good doctor over a hidden speaker (which was under the bed. I bet my World's Fastest Waldo Finder award on it). "The water is not working, hmm? Mind still in one piece?"

"If it ever was, it is now."

"Then I will have to use more drastic measures."

"Like what, turn the faucet a quarter or even half turn? Your water bill must be big enough by now, so what say you just forget this whatever you were doing and lemme get back to the job I hate?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Wilson. I have worked far too hard to let you go now. Now I shall show you true suffering!"

"Oh, I'm shakin'."

The speaker made some feedback noise, followed by something even worse.

MMMbop tick a ta ba do ba

dubi da ba do ba

tick a ta ba doo

Yeah-ee yeah-hah!

MMMbop tick a ta ba do ba

dubi da ba do ba

tick a ta ba doo

Yeah-ee eh yeah-ha!

"NOOOOOO!!! You fiend!! How can you sleep at night, you monster!?! AAAAAAA, THE HORROR!! STOP, PLEASE!!! I'll tell you anything!! Who shot Kennedy! The meaning of life! The Colonel's eleven herbs and spices!!!"

"Now, what kind of sadistic maniac would I be if I stopped tormenting you on demand?"

"A non-asshole!"

"Sweet dreams, Mr. Wilson. (sound of footsteps leaving)"

"Ah-ha! So, you admit you're an asshole!"

I listened to every single thing Hanson ever recorded, including interviews. There is NOTHING as insipid as a nine year old drummer talking about what he wants for Christmas! After Hanson, he switched to Mandy Moore. My impure thoughts about her staved off panic for a while, but being unable to give me the ol' spit-shine only made it worse. Sometimes, I fainted...er, blacked out from exhaustion, but even then I dreamed about pretty boy demons and wholesome succubi temptresses. Also of talking fish and a frog that seemed to think I had the head of a rabbit. I always woke up from those craving Pez and toast.

After a while he switched to electrocution, cutting and acids, accompanied by the expected brain-washing. By the end, my face felt covered in scar tissue and blood and...look, do you guys mind if I just sorta skip over this part? It's not funny or sexy and it's...it's bringing my mood down. You wouldn't like me when my mood's down, least not as a narrator. So let's just skip ahead to happier thoughts.

The doctor would unstrap me, eventually. And I was going to **** the shit out of him, when he did. Ah, that's better!

I let go and let days and pain drift by, waiting for that day. After four months of full-body scarring, the doctor announced that tomorrow was my graduation from the 'Rection X program.

Goody.