A spotlight shines on a darkened stage, and from its margins steps Doctor Mister Eggman. He holds a piece of paper up to his line of sight and clears his throat.
"Dear Madam, Miss, Mister or Sir Eggman," he reads. "In endeavoring to strengthen the muscles of my arms and abdomen, I appear to have cursed my bowels to wither. No more does stool pass through my rectal gates. My toilet goes hungry, and the rats in the sewers grow restless. Will the plentiful fruits of my gut ever find purchase? Or are the bursts of hot, fetid air from my anus like the triumphant horn of Gabriel, calling all souls to their final judgment? Yours, mine, and possibly also theirs, signed: wow."
Dr. Mr. Eggman, and also Mrs., Ms., Dr., and Sr. Eggman, Esq., he takes the piece of paper and folds it into neat little fourths. Then he eats it.
"I got my doctorate in robotics, not in medicine," says Dr. Mr. Mrs. Ms. Dr. Sr. Eggman, "but maybe you should eat some fiber and drink more water? Hope this helps."