Well, registered voters of Bradford County. It’s been quite a ride. As my one and only term as transportation commissioner comes to an end, I can’t help but look back and wonder: Where did it all go wrong?

Losing this election by the biggest voting margin in our state’s history will not tarnish everything I’ve accomplished. A new five-year transportation improvement plan, a revision of the subdivision staging policy, and yes, one unfortunate late-night visit to a twenty-four-hour CVS Pharmacy.

To my 219 loyal supporters, give or take a few mail-in voters yet to be counted, I thank you. And to all the rest of you, let me say again that, yes, I did stuff my penis into that blood pressure cuff. But let me reiterate: it was not a sex thing.

Nor was I drunk or on any narcotics. I simply wanted to see what it would feel like.

It was 2:00 a.m. I made absolutely sure there were no other customers in the store. All I wanted to do was insert “myself” into the medical device, receive a quick squeeze, and a “How’s the family?” then I’d purchase a pint of Chunky Monkey and be on my way. Where’s the harm in that?

Never in my wildest dream did I anticipate that my penis would be squeezed purple like an eggplant inside that ever-tightening noose and the guy restocking the Dasani would need to call the volunteer fire department to dislodge my dong.

And now my burgeoning political career has ended because of some very normal intellectual curiosity.

Don’t all great scientific discoveries start with a simple question like the one I posed to myself in that fateful pharmacy? Should I not have seen my hypothesis through to its logical conclusion? Imagine if Einstein was labeled a “pervy sicko” and “avuncular creep” because he tried to split some atoms or whatever he did.

I guarantee you that every man—be he a king, a president, or a county transportation commissioner—has questioned what it would be like to thrust his wang in a CVS, Rite Aid, or, if in New York, a Duane Reade blood pressure testing machine.

And probably, like, 40 percent of women think about flopping a titty in there.

But today isn’t about that. Nor is it about the inner-ear damage my high-pitched, phlegmy crying caused those brave firefighters as they unleashed the jaws of life mere millimeters from my wedding tackle. No, it is about me graciously conceding the election. As well as me pleading not guilty, your honor, to these capricious and unjust indecent exposure charges.

If the cowards in City Hall want to besmirch my good name for being the Marco Polo of sticking his dick where it doesn’t belong, so be it.