I get real depressed every time I wet my pants. It’s textbook. I stay in bed all day, cut off all my friends, eat nothing but ice cream, and write bad poetry. My wife dreads these spells.

Normally I’m a fully functioning human person: I go to work, I eat pasta, I read trade paperbacks. But the second a drop of urine touches my man-panties? I’m freefalling down the rabbit-hole. And I DON”T mean that literally! Read a book!

For those of you who don’t know, I AM ON TELEVISION. This means that I am periodically called upon to elevate the minds of the masses via comedic and/or trageo-realistic scenarios. This requires that my mind stay fresh, my body conditioned and that my undies absorb nothing urine-like. Once, in college, I was doing Shakespeare (heard of him?) and my college buddies put yellow stains in all of my under-drawers with magic marker. This innocent prank landed me in health services with a Valium addiction to rival that of any Mid-western housewife. I almost manslaughtered the fuck out of those douches! Their names were Fitzy, Sully, Little Sully, Herdo, Beerchuggingmaster, John C. Reilly and Black Sully. I wonder what happened to those guys?

Presently I’m doing a show on Fox called The Winner. It comes out in January and it’s guaranteed to trigger a massive cultural shift. The other night (I am NOT telling you which one, you’ll blab it to everybody) I was preparing for a scene in which I had to walk down some fake stairs and perform a fake situation with a person. That’s when my bladder told my brain-ball that I had to tinkle. I ran to my dressing room (you know, the one with the huge star on the door) and humiliated the toilet with a stream of gorgeous liquid body-filth. I shook my penis with a vigor required of those in my profession and forced the damn thing back into my khakis. Guess what happened then? The last drop ended up in my pants. It always does, doesn’t it?

When the Fire Department finally broke through my dressing room door I was tucked up inside the oven I had built for just such occasions. It took the Jaws of Life just to get me out of the fetal position (Gross!). My costars had probably gone on without me or had postponed the show or were just waiting to see what would happen or played cards or gotten something to eat or read a newspaper or went over their lines or made phone calls or checked their email or took a power nap or did something else or just talked to each other. You know how actors can be!

With my pants now dry I somehow made it home to the loving arms of my wife. It was crowded in there because she was holding our selfish selfish selfish baby. I took a nap for a few weeks but somehow managed to keep up on “Lost” without using my Tivo. I hope someday, after they get off that crazy island, they’ll have reunion shows where they perhaps sing songs or do comedy routines. Except for Michelle Rodriguez’s character. If you die in the show you can’t do the reunion specials! That’s a hard and fast rule. Have you seen Heroes? That’s a pretty good show.

Manic depression runs in my family and can be triggered by anything, specifically things that are reminiscent of traumatic events from your childhood. I’ve interviewed my parents and, to my horror, found out that they used to make me wear a diaper. And when I wet my diaper I would cry! Think about it! Paging Doctor Freud!

In conclusion, John C. Reilly went on to become a very successful actor.

Rob Corddry is an actor. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and daughter.