The first thing I recalled upon opening my eyes was the unfettered debauchery of the night before. Fuzzy memories, as well as evil and oppressive sunlight flooded in. A bartab the size of the Ecuadoran GNP, the stolen golf cart, the look on those poor tourists faces as they realized exactly what their minivan was covered with, and finally, the long, painful scratches that inevitably result from trying to use a disgruntled housecat as a pillow. Yep, those were still there. Also, the splinters from the 20 foot slide down yon nearby palm tree were still there as well, an agonizing reminder to, as a wise man of the jungle once said, “Watch out for that tree.” And verily it is that we should heed the words of that sainted fellow, for do we all not brachiate through life's rain forest, flailing as aimlessly as a pack of gibbons or marmoset on patrol for their morning meal, hooting at our compatriots, and displaying our hindquarters randomly to passersby?

Monkey business aside, my reader will no doubt guess that their humble narrator still has one hell of a hangover to describe. A starburst of pain precluded any further recollection while Sartre' own Nausea washed over me. I was overcome with a powerful desire to sit down. The problem was, I was already reclining in what was later determined to be a lawn chair, and my attempt to seat myself resulted in me spastically wiggling myself and the chair into a position where, curiously, none of the chair's four legs were actually contacting the ground. Newton did the rest. The subsequent two seconds were among the longest in recorded history, as I spun slowly, gently, but ever so inexorably towards the patio's quaint yet tasteful handpainted tile. Face first. With the chair on top of me. Springing into action like a paraplegic antelope, I barely managed to turn my head aside before snuggling up to terra firma after a couple of bounces. I split my eyebrow on the first bounce, and blood ran freely into my left eye and down off of my mangled visage onto the cobalt and alabaster of the floor below. As I struggled to extricate myself from the wreckage, I glimpsed, through my good eye, a slice of heaven in a housecoat, drifting as if on a zephyr, coming to my aid from within our abode.

“Will you please explain to me exactly what in the name of kittens you're doing up this earl...Holy mother of gratuitous facial scarring, did you insult a man with a weedeater or did I miss the memo about self-flagellation coming back into style?!?”

“Err... negative, Pookie, just a lack of balance and a cat that needs skinning. Could you see your way clear to grabbing me a mirror, a pair of tweezers, and a Percoset from the bathroom? Also, hydrogen peroxide and a nice cup of chamomile would come in handy as well.”

“Would His Eminence care for fries with that?”

“Silence, shrew, and fall to my bidding, I'll brook no insolence this morning.”

“Ok, Ok, just quit bleeding on the tile.” With that she was off, leaving me to contemplate the decision making process which had apparently led me to allow a Djembe drummer to rent a room in my frontal lobe and have my tongue carpeted. My reverie was interrupted only moments later, as my mental percussion was drowned out by the insistent yelping of the household cur trying to get outside. As I shuffled to the door to aid the plaintive canine, an idea crystallized that walking might not be the safest transportation option at that point in the game, as there was considerably more wobble in my step than factory tolerances allow for. I did manage to get to the door, however, and let the dog out. As he streaked after a nearby squirrel with murderous intent, I made my way gingerly to a couch in the entryway, and laid upon it to await the tender ministrations of my mate.

Upon her return I set about removing the detritus of last night's misadventures from my lacerated skin, disinfecting and patching myself up as best I could. Try as I might, my efforts at damage control were a wash, and I still looked like I had been through a window face first. My head was still splitting, and the little fellow with the Djembe had worked himself up to near 200BPM. I needed breakfast and another eight hours of sleep, and set about securing the former. Two pieces of cold fried chicken and a glass of grapefruit juice later, I resolved to find my bed, and once found, to hold that position until compelled to surrender it by biological necessity. It was then that milady asked a simple, yet disturbingly difficult question:

“Where's Johnny?”

This fellow Johnny is Pookie's little brother and had accompanied me in my assault on good taste, common decency, and functional liver cells the previous evening, but had evidently not returned from his wanderings, thus causing his sibling much heartache and concern. I had last seen Johnny jumping off of a bridge into a canal, seemingly thoroughly unconvinced by my assurances that there was no way that a police car could outrun the golf cart. As it turns out, he was absolutely correct and I had been forced to abandon my prize on the side of the road and seek refuge in the aforementioned palm tree, where I managed to evade detection at the cost of my comfort and dignity. That being said, I had not seen hide nor hair of this fellow in over five hours and had no ready response. The expectant look in her eyes informed me that there would be no rest until the wayward soul was returned, solidifying the knowledge that I secretly knew but had dreaded to admit even to myself, that it was going to be one of those days.

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