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.

Oh well. Probably for the best if handing it over to China was the only viable option. Still, I feel like “Chaz” Bono just kneed me in the groin in a misguided attempt to make me her girlfriend. And it leaves unanswered the question of what I’ll be driving once I’m ready for a new luxury SUV later this year.

I suppose I could switch to an Escalade, but nothing says “screw you and your tree-hugging ways, you bearded, patchouli-smelling freaks” like rolling large in an American-made juggernaut named after a sex act. Take the 2009 model I currently drive. That fat bastard gets less than eight miles to the gallon. Eight! And frankly, I find it to be too fuel efficient. I kept hoping the Hummer engineers would find some way to cut it down to about one mile to the gallon, but I guess that dream is now as dead as the line itself.

That tears it. Time to head over to Madame Ching’s House of Exotic Massage and vent my frustration on some of their Mao-loving employees. Better hope your sister’s not working there tonight — it’s going to get ugly.

Take this morning, for example. Suffering from a hangover that I feared might be contagious, I made a run to my nearest McDonald’s. Which isn’t very “near,” mind you; I don’t live close to poor people. At any rate, some scraggly bearded, tousle-haired freak came running up to the passenger side of my Hummer as I was waiting in the drive-thru, and had the unmitigated gall to rap his greasy knuckles against my pristine window.

Still, the lad had piqued my curiosity. I powered down the glass.

“Hey, hey mister,” he whispered furtively. “Hey, you need anything?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “Why else would I be at a McDonald’s?”

“No man, I mean — you need some smoke? ‘Ludes? Got some tabs too, if that’s your thing.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “In just a year since that Kenyan-born fascist dictator took office, society has already deteriorated to the point where people of your station feel comfortable selling illegal drugs in broad daylight in the parking lots of such iconic American eateries as this? Is that what I’m to understand?”

“Look man, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said nervously. Then his eyes widened with shock and fear. “Wait a second. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“No,” I assured him. “But I am a culture warrior. That said, I’ll take some Oxys if you have them.”

Which he did, and ten minutes later I was headed back to my palatial estate with a sack full of delicious Egg McMuffins and a small handful of my recreational drug of choice. The only downside is I have Obama to thank for the latter. Not that I ever would, of course. I have my limits.

So anyhow, it was a good night. Every cock I bet on won. What’s more, I spent the winnings on the ugliest Mexican whore I could find, then gave her a savage beating in a roach-infested motel strategically located behind an abortion clinic. What can I say? I was on a bad side of town. People live like animals over there, and they deserve what they get.

Alright, I gotta split — I shit my pants on the drive home, and need to wake the houseboy and tell him to go scrub down the Hummer’s interior before feces soaks into the fine Corinthian leather seats. Then it’s straight to bed for me. I would take a shower first, but I’m beat, and what do I care if my sheets get shitty? It’s not like I’m the one who has to wash them, right?

Thing is, I’m willing to give our nation’s icons a lot of leeway. Take my good friend Hank Williams Jr., for example. Am I bothered by the fact that he’s accused of choking a waitress at a fleabag motel in Memphis? Of course not. I’ve done far “worse” myself. That said, I take a hard line when it comes to illegal drugs… a line that Willie flew right over the moment he allowed the Devil’s Weed to enter his body.

Which begs the question: Why, Willie? Why? With so many perfectly legal drugs to choose from — alcohol, tobacco, diet pills, Robitussin, my personal favorite OxyContin, etc. — why stoop to the level of a common street junkie to get your fix? Why ruin your legacy like that? Can you tell me? Or is your pot-soaked brain so addled that you long ago forgot what led you down this low-rent path to begin with?

I suppose we’ll never know. I’ll tell you one thing, though — not a chance in hell am I ever putting his so-called “BioWillie” fuel in my Hummer. Stuff’s probably pure hemp oil!

Unfortunately, my Hummer comes equipped with no such luxury, which meant I was forced to pull over and make a mad dash for the bushes when my bowels started quivering on the interstate during my homeward commute. I didn’t quite make it, and found myself squatting with no cover as liquid shit spewed from my trembling ass.

“You sick bastard!” someone shouted from a passing car. Not a second later, something pointy bounced off my head. I turned slightly and saw it was a crushed can of Old Milwaukee.

“You’re going to hell for that!” screamed a presumably ugly woman, just as a trucker blew his air horn. Talk about embarrassing.

After an eternity, the geyser ended. I semi-wiped with a filthy, rain-soaked Penny Saver lying nearby, then got back in my Hummer. I made it home without further incident, but believe me when I say I’ve learned my lesson: no more raw bacon in the morning. No sir. No matter how good it tastes.

“Show you my testicles?” I said, confused. “What are you doing outside, officer? Come in, come in! I’m no dope-sucking criminal with something to hide — you have free reign of my home. Unless you’ve come for my computer, in which case I’ll need to see a warrant. Can I get you something to drink?”

That’s when I realized I was behind the wheel of my trusty Hummer. Which was inexplicably parked in the middle of a rather dilapidated McDonald’s. The place was full of people, but instead of employees and customers, they were cops.

Next thing I know, I’m being booked for driving under the influence. Guess the 12 or so OxyContins I took this morning really crept right up on me.

Still, it’s bullshit. Sure, drinking and driving is bad, even if it is occasionally necessary. And driving with a head full of illegal drugs should never be tolerated. But to tell a man he can’t drive after taking prescription medicine, medicine he might very well need to stay alive? You might as well tell that man he can’t drive while breathing. And I’ll be goddamned if anyone’s going to tell me to suffocate myself just because I want to go for a drive.

At least, that’s the argument my attorneys’ll make when this nasty business goes before a judge in a few months. In the meantime, I’m off to pop some more Oxys. You know, to take the edge off.

Silence from the PA box. And then: “Uh, sir? We don’t offer the Super Size anymore.”

“What do you mean, you don’t offer the Super Size? Is this McDonald’s or not?”

The question was rhetorical. I knew for a fact I was at McDonald’s, because I’d driven there in my Hummer for lunch. And I’m not some pill-popping dopehead given to forgetting where he is. Clearly, the same could not be said for the dude working the drive-through this afternoon.

“Yeah, you’re at McDonald’s,” he said. “But like I said, we don’t have a Super Size anymore. Just a Large.”

“A ‘Large?’ But I want a Super Size. What happened to the Super Size?”

“We discontinued it. Due to, uh, health concerns.”

“Health concerns? Again, is this McDonald’s or not?”

“Yeah, man. Like I already said, this is McDonald’s. But…”

“But nothing! If I wanted to discuss health concerns, I’d see a doctor. Which I do. Frequently. But when I come to McDonald’s, I want a lot of greasy food, served up piping hot, with a gallon of Coke to wash it down. Do I make myself clear?”

“Uh, yeah. But like I said…”

“Look — the customer is always right, goddammit! And I am the goddamn customer, and I want a goddamn Super Size with my order, and I’m filthy goddamn rich, so gimme what I goddamn want! Now!!!“

Squeaky wheel greased, I was soon in possession of enough food to feed an entire Ethiopian village. Not that it did; I was quite hungry, and finished every bite.

“I’m gonna kill you, you fat honky bastard!”

This was the driver in the car to my right. At least, I think that’s what he said. It was a little hard to tell, as the windows on my Hummer were rolled up, both the AC and the AC/DC were at full blast, and we were doing 80 down the highway. Plus, he was waving a gun at me.

So I slammed on my brakes. And just in the nick of time, as it turned out. The madman fired wildly, putting six beer can-sized holes through a Cutlass Supreme in the lane to my left. Unfortunately, the old lady behind the wheel was killed instantly. Don’t expect me to feel too bad though. She was 87, which meant she’d already been soaking up social security for damn near a quarter-century.

The good news is, that guy’s going away for a long time. And to think it all started ’cause I flicked him off for driving too slow. What did he expect? If you don’t want the bird, don’t drive like an asshole.