I’m finally back at my palatial estate following a rather harrowing, utterly unproductive weekend at the Conservative Political Action Conference (CPAC), and I couldn’t be happier to be home. That said, National Harbor, Maryland did have one last surprise for me before I boarded my return flight. At least it was a welcome surprise compared to the others I encountered during my travels.
It began while I was dead asleep, and a booming, rather yokelish voice pierced my slumber. “Wakey wakey eggs and bakey, son! Y’all ain’t gonna have no time for breakfast if y’keep on sawing logs like that! Haw!”
“Whas that?” I muttered, creaking my crusted eyes open a notch. “Who’s there?”
“This is ol’ Randall Hank, son!” my old friend said. “Bocephus! I’m ready to get the breakfast time started!” He was standing over the bed on which I was sprawled, his trademark hat, sunglasses, and frazzled beard becoming more visible with each passing second.
“Hank? What are you doing here? Where am I? Am I hallucinating?”
“Not that I know of, son! You sure as hell put down a lot of PBR and Jim Beam last night—”
“Jesus!” I said, wincing.
“What, son?” Hank said.
“OK! I mean, OK. Sorry about that. You know how it is. Ol’ Randall Hank just starts to get carried away and—!”
“You’re doing it again!”
“Haw haw!” Hank said, literally slapping his knee. “Sorry, son. I’ll try to keep it down.”
“See to it that you do. Now, what were you saying?”
“Oh, right. Just that I didn’t see no hippies dose your drink with LSD or jenkum or nothing like that.”
“You asked if you were hallucinating. I—”
“Look, never mind that. It was rhetorical.”
“Never mind. Just tell me where I am, and why you’re here.”
“Well that’s easy, son! We’re in my suite at the Gaylord National Hotel! Haw haw, Gaylord! Ain’t that a hoot!”
“The Gaylord? Wait, you mean you were invited to CPAC?”
“Of course, son! This is ol’ Randall Hank! Hell, I put the party in Republican Party!”
“Alright, so how did I get here?”
“Haw!” Hank said with a grin. “I went to pick up some takeout burritos and saw you stumbling around in some back alley, looking like you’d just shit your drawers. I walked up and sure enough, you had shit your drawers! Then you started babbling on about how some dude pulled a knife on you in a dice game.”
“Right,” I said. “Snake.”
“Snake?” Hank jumped back in a fighting stance. “Where?”
“No, not a snake. The guy who pulled the knife on me was named Snake. Anyhow, what happened next?”
“You ate both of my burritos. Truth be told, I’m still feeling kind of on’ry about that, son!”
“Fine, I’ll pay you back. And then?”
“It was just like old times. Me and you came back here to the suite, you showered and wrapped yerself in a shower curtain like it was a toga, and then I ordered up some call girls and a bunch of booze and we partied like it was 1973! Haw! That was a good ol’ time!”
“I was 13 in 1973.”
“Yeah, well ladies and Jim Beam tried to kill me in ’73! I win that round, son!”
I found it difficult to argue with his logic, and we were soon being feted like kings in the Gaylord’s swankest restaurant. An hour after that I was on the redeye back home, and that was that. And good riddance. I’ve taken several miserable vacations in my life, but this one really took the cake. On a related note, it appears that my butler Montgomery baked a Black Forest cake while I was away, so if you’ll excuse me I’m off to eat the entire thing while relaxing with some well-deserved Internet porn. Ta ta.