The Bride is Trying to Kill Me

This is a cry for help.
The Bride is trying to kill me, and I need you to have my back.
I sustained a bad back injury that led to a near death experience.
No, not running or lifting weights or rock climbing or doing something else manly.
No, this 45 year old with 24 pieces of surgical metal in his body hurt his back in the middle of the night trying to get up out of bed to pee. I moved wrong, my back went out, and I went down hard. I went down to the floor in agony, crying for help. The Bride sits up and starts sleep talking, or pretending to sleep talk, “Stop making noise and put underwear on! Your sister is in the living room!”
Then this criminal mastermind lays back down and fakes sleep.
My sister is not in the living room. She’s in Pennsylvania. Also, she has four older brothers with no sense of humility, so it wouldn’t phase her even if I had walked out into the living room with a middle of the night urination boner.
I mean, my poor sister has been through it all. Once, while sharing a bed with her drunken one passed out drunken brother at a wedding, she sits up in the middle of the night and declares in a very emphatic tone that, “if you touch my butt one more time, I’m going to break your arm!”
In his defense, our sister strongly resembles his wife, but that’s another story for another time.
Anyway, point being, if my sister was in our living room and had seen my pee boner, it would not be the worst thing to happen to her. But what might actually be the worst thing ever is that I may die, on my bedroom floor, after having peed all over myself, because The Bride chose to let me suffer and die instead of trying to save me.
Now, you may ask, why would The Bride want to kill off her wonderful husband?
Well, I just sold my business and made The Bride the beneficiary on my bank account. So, for all I know, she was awake, hearing my agonizing cries for help, and she’s just trying to ride it out, hoping I die, while dreaming of herself riding along the coast in her new convertible Corvette, air blowing through her hair, while some dickhead 22 year old dude enjoyed the fruits of my lifetime of labor.
Anyway, after half and hour or so, I gathered myself, got back in bed, and was able to bravely make it through the night and fend off the Grim Reaper. In the morning, I was so jacked up with pain that that I could not bend at the hips.  I took a handful of pain pills, and when it was time for my morning poo, I had three options.
1- Stand over the toilet like a B17 bomber plane and hope for the best.
OR
2- Put together a make-shift bed pan out of The Bride’s cake pan.
OR
3- Shit myself
I went with option #2.
The Bride was driving the kids to tennis camp, so I’d be able to pull it off and get rid of the evidence and she’d never know.
Until now.
So, I survived the ordeal, not because I wanted to, but to spite The Bride, and I want everyone here to know that if something happens to me in the next few months, it was her.
I’m trusting you guys to get me justice.

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