Quite an embarrassing start to the day — I woke up in an alley behind a 7-11, wearing nothing but socks and a lei. No wallet, no keys, nor any idea how I got there. Very strange, considering that the last thing I remembered was frolicking in my Olympic-sized swimming pool with four call girls from Pete’s Poontang Emporium and an erection that could pierce steel.
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.