“Goddamn, Oz,” he said, after I found him relaxing by my pool about an hour ago. “That’s what ol’ Randall Hank calls a damn good party. Hat’s off, son!”

“Everyone had a good time, I take it?”

“Good time? Are you shitting me? People were just about biting their own goddamn heads off, they was having so much fun!”

“Excellent, excellent,” I said, helping myself to the pitcher of Bloody Marys at his elbow. “But do me a favor.”

“Anything, son!”

“Stop shouting — I’m terribly hung over. It feels as though Maude Demaine herself was dancing on my head.”

“Maude De-who?”

“Maude Demaine, wife of the noted oilman Demaine.”

“Don’t know her.”

“You’re not missing anything. Unless elephantine women with eye warts and string mustaches are your thing.”

“No, they sure as hell ain’t. Ol’ Hank likes ‘em young and pretty, son! Wait a second.”

“Yes?”

“Ain’t she the one who was polishing your horn in the hot tub last night?”

“Polishing my horn?” I gasped. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Haw haw!” he laughed, slapping his thigh for emphasis as hillbillies are wont to do. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“I don’t remember anything! Dear god!”

“Yeah, and the worst part is, you didn’t even get to finish! Some skinny old dude pulled her off a’ya. I think it was her husband.”

For the first and hopefully last time in my life, I actually shrieked. “Demaine?! Demaine caught us in flagrante delicto?!”

“I don’t know what the hell that last part means, but he definitely caught y’all with your pole in her mouth. I just about bust a gut when I saw that, son!”

I blacked out at that point, and the next thing I knew, my butler Montgomery was frantically waving smelling salts under my nose. Hank was gone by then, and I can only hope that he either misunderstood or was exaggerating this alleged incident involving the Demaines. Because if he wasn’t, I’m probably a dead man — I’ll let you know.

Moreover, getting home was a logistical nightmare. I started off by trying the 7-11, but met with immediate resistance.

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa!” the Hindu man behind the counter shouted as I strolled through the front doors. “No shirt, no shoes, no service, mein Führer!”

I couldn’t understand why the clerk was addressing me in such a manner, though it became clear once I got home: someone had taken the liberty of scrawling a swastika on my forehead with a Sharpie. I don’t know why. Perhaps they had mistaken me for Barack Obama?

“Please,” I said. “I’ve obviously been mugged. Call the police!”

The clerk produced a .357 Magnum from behind the counter and pointed it at me. “I’m calling the police alright. But first you need to leave, or I’m going to let some air out of that disgusting spare tire of yours!”

“Okay, okay, no need for violence,” I said, backing slowly out of the store. “And might I say that you speak English very well for a man of your ethnic background. Kudos to you, sir; you’re a credit to your race.”

Long story short, I waited in front of the 7-11 until the police showed up about 30 minutes later, and I was back at my palatial estate an hour or so after that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m recovering in the hot tub with a stack of nudie mags and a pitcher of Bloody Marys and don’t need you standing around, gawking at my misfortune — don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.

The point is, I had bacon for breakfast. Fifty slices of bacon to be precise, each slice exactly 12 inches long before cooking. And every one of those hand-cut slices came from a different pig. The rest of those pigs? Tossed out with the garbage. My butler, Montgomery, had the temerity to object to this plan once he was done extracting the bacon.

“But sir!” he said. “I could make more of my delicious scrapple with the leftovers. Why waste the lot of them? Wot wot!”

“Montgomery,” I said, “when you’re as rich as I am, you never have to use the same pig twice. Run down to the butcher’s and buy some more pigs if you have the urge to make scrapple. Lord knows I won’t complain.”

“Very well, sir. Pip pip.”

“Oh, and Montgomery?”

“Yes, Master Carver?”

“If you ever question my orders again? You’ll find yourself curbside with the rest of the hour-old pigs.”

“Right-o, guv’nor!”

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to relax poolside with a pitcher of Bloody Marys and the April issue of Juggs Monthly. Don’t call unless it’s an emergency.

This was said by a wart-and-hair-covered hillbilly who appeared to be brandishing a shotgun. I couldn’t be sure though; I had just awoken and could barely see a thing through my sleep-encrusted eyes. Moreover, I was suffering from the absolute worst hangover of my life, and wasn’t entirely positive that I wasn’t hallucinating the situation.

“Please,” I croaked, “keep it down. There’s no need to shout.”

“I’ll shout all I goddamn want, boy! You decide to sack out in a man’s carport, you damn well better expect to get shouted at! Shit, I’ve half a mind to curb-stomp your disgustin’ ass! Now get on up or Ol’ Betsy here’ll make sure you stay down for good!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t do anything brash.” I slowly pushed myself up… which is when I realized that I wasn’t wearing any pants. Or anything below the waist for that matter. In fact, the only thing I had on was a three-sizes-too-small T-shirt emblazoned with a Corvette logo.

“Goddamn son, you are one sorry sight! Now you just go ahead and get them flabby arms of yers up while I call for the police.”

“Police? I don’t think…”

“Shut the fuck up!” my captor shouted, then turned slightly towards the hovel that presumably passed for his home. “Hey Dave! Get yer ass on out here! And bring that there portable phone with you!”

A moment later, this Dave character came shuffling out through a screened door. Much to my surprise, it was none other than Skynyrd Dave — the illicit OxyContin supplier whom I had met in the parking lot of McDonald’s last month. I say without an ounce of hyperbole that I had never been happier to see a poor person.

“What in the hell’s going on out here, Doug?” Skynyrd Dave asked. Then, upon seeing me: “Shit. Oz, is that you?”

“Yes,” I said. “And I’ve told you before: call me Mr. Carver.”

“Wait a second,” said Doug. “You two know each other?”

“Hell yeah, man,” Skynyrd Dave confirmed. “He’s one of my best customers. What are you doing pointing a shotgun at him?”

“I found him passed out here in the carport. And he ain’t wearing no pants.”

“Huh. Yeah, where are your pants, Oz? I mean, Mr. Carver?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone must have stolen them. My wallet too, obviously. But if one of you could give me a ride home, I’ll gladly reimburse you for your troubles once we get there.”

Thirty minutes later, I was soaking in a hot tub and chasing the hair of the dog with a pitcher of Bloody Marys at my palatial estate. Still, quite the adventure. I’ll probably never know how I wound up in that carport, and I don’t expect to see my still-missing Hummer again, but one thing’s for certain: whether he had anything to do with it or not, I’m firing Luis first thing Monday morning. There’s simply too much cheap Mexican labor available in this country to ever give one of them the benefit of the doubt.