I’m no criminology expert but I may have an idea of how to begin the rehabilitation process for hardened criminals. One that will leave them screaming for mercy and ready to make a lifestyle change. I can hear them now: I’ll do anything. Please just stop–

–the cleanse.

For those of you living under a rock and unfamiliar with the concept of a juice cleanse, it’s been the rage for quite some time now. I’ve just completed a three-day juice cleanse (my first) designed to rid my body of toxins caused by sugar, alcohol, processed foods, heavy metals (from seafood), etc.

Cleanses come usually in three-, five- or seven-day versions. After completing three days, I can only guess that the five- and seven-day enthusiasts are sadomasochists who have found a socially acceptable way to indulge their predilections.

My cleanse was sent to me in a large box with cold packs. I eagerly opened the package and put all of the bright, seemingly innocuous bottles in my refrigerator. I was ready. Or so I thought.

After my first juice, a blend that involved lemon juice and cayenne pepper, among other ingredients, I was feeling virtuous. Yes, virtuous. Drinking lemon, celery, ginger, cucumber and cayenne is not easy so you feel a bit like an ascetic on a good day when you cheerfully finish it. I did alright that day until I got to the carrot, red bell pepper, broccoli and sweet potato concoction. Some flavors are just not meant to be drunk together (you could say the same for some people).

Just before bed that night, the headache started. By the next morning, I felt worse than Lindsay Lohan on New Year’s Day. Pounding headache, body aches, chills, stomach pangs. I’ll spare you the gory details but suffice it to say I might have considered carjacking you for a sub bun.

And the crazy part is, once you’re 12 to 24 hours in, you’re not quitting. No matter how much you want to, you’re bound to make this suffering amount to something. I’ll be cleansed if it kills me, you think, feverishly. And it may. Kill me, that is.

If you’re cleansing in anything other than a monastery (which I’d recommend), those around you will coincidentally choose these three days to eat cheeseburgers, drink your favorite wine and carb out. You will clear all sharp utensils from the house so as not to hurt them.

And then, on the third morning, you awake, cautiously awaiting the assault on your senses, ready to scream, “For the love of Jesus, just make it stop!”

But you feel, instead, light. Healthy. Refreshed, even. With only six more juices and several gallons of water to drink, you realize you’re in the home stretch.

You’d do the happy dance but you’re too weak. And you’d write a blog about your experience, but you have to wait a few days to do that also, so your little fingers have the energy to dance across the keyboard again.

Yes, this is my version of “the dog ate my homework.” Sorry for the missed blog entry this week, folks, but I was indulging in socially acceptable sadomasochism.

I’m coming clean with you, so to speak.

Obviously I can cleanse my body but not my corny sense of humor.