You may want to sit down for this. Ready? Okay. I HAVE TINGLING THIGH SYNDROME. But hold on... everything's going to be fine. Okay... okay... stop crying already. It's not that serious. Look, you're... you're hyperventilating. Breathe into this bag. Seriously, this is getting annoying. I'M NOT GOING TO DIE! So get it together for the love of Christ! According to doctors, Tingling Thigh Syndrome is completely curable—that is, if I choose to pull off my pants.

Let me explain: For years I have suffered from a mysterious "tingling" sensation in my thigh—as if a phantom cell phone was vibrating in my pocket. I attributed this phenomenon to one of two causes: (1) thigh cancer, or (2) since my groin is a squirrel's nest of sexual energy, my thigh was the recipient of "runoff" or residual horniness. Remarkably, however—and this rarely happens—BOTH of my theories were completely wrong!

According to a story I read on, what I actually have is "Tingling Thigh Syndrome" or in technical doctor-y terms, "meralgia paresthetica," which refers to a tingling or burning sensation in the thigh when undue pressure is applied to the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve. So what's causing this pressure? NO, IT'S NOT MY PENIS (which was my first guess, too)... IT'S MY TIGHT JEANS!

Apparently my skin-tight trousers not only are accentuating my God-given gifts but also are putting my thighs to sleep. Therefore, the obvious solution to my malady would be to take off my pants, right? OH, YOU WOULD LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU?

Well, let me tell YOU something, Buster Brown! There is no way in H-E-double hockey sticks that I'm giving up my painted-on pants. Why? Because I care about the mental health of the freaking world, that's why! In case you've been living underneath a rock or something, my ass has often been referred to as a "honey-baked ham" and my "sweet 'n' juicy" and "deemed a model of structural perfection by the department of mechanical engineering at MIT." Now how do you think the world would react if I were to peel off the jeans that perfectly encapsulate the awesomeness of my hindquarters and begin wearing the same, ugly baggy pants sported by frat boys, circus clowns, and the clinically insane? IT'D BE ANARCHY, GODDAMMIT! ANARCHY!!

(Oh, while we're on the subject of medicine, you should totally check out a new "dramedy" debuting this Monday at 10:30 pm on Showtime titled Nurse Jackie. It stars Edie Falco—Carmela from The Sopranos—as an ER nurse who goes to bizarre lengths to ensure her patients are treated right, while simultaneously maintaining her addiction to prescription pain meds. It's funny and dark and makes those other hospital shows look like a colostomy bag full of old-person gravy.)

Now where was I? Oh, yeah! ANARCHY!! So unless I'm planning on doing some serious porkage, these nerve-damaging jeans are going to stay right where they are, doing what they do best, which is to say making my junk look like a million bucks, decimating my sperm count, and cutting off all feeling below my testes. I'm doing it all for you, world! Hope you appreciate it.