8:45 AM on Interstate 17

I was awakened this morning by the thunderous hum of a passing 18-wheeler. As my eyes opened from their shallow, troubled rest, I slowly took an inventory of my curious state.

I was shirtless and sporting a handsome satin Kimono. I had a fresh Team Jacob tattoo on my right upper thigh, and some Team Edward ink on my left. On my abdomen was thematically-unifying third leg to the triad.

I reeked of a several hours old Sambuca shot. No, make that two. I had been relieved of my eyebrow, and (as I later learned) painted in its place were thick, arched, Brooke Shieldsian facsimiles. A handsome pair of what looked to be hand-cut Dutch clogs adorned my feet. My socks were apparently long gone, as were any traces of my undergarments.

One the ground next to me was a small JanSport fanny pack. In it, on a ripped off portion of a carton of Pall Mall cigarettes, was this cryptic message. Also inside was a $25.00 check to me from someone named Miles Odenkirk with Shit Yeah, Bro written in the memo line, a Cantonese (?) dental dam, a half-eaten Nutter Butter, a classic Hardcore Rap CD and the phone number to a prominent Phoenix-area urologist.  And, perhaps most importantly, a disposable camera that included the photo to the upper left. I don't recall ever having met any of those people, but I have a distinct feeling that I know them fairly well at this point.

I can't say for sure, but I'm 80-85% convinced that I just had the best night of my life.  And probably the best night of any of your lives as well.

Glad tidings,
Denny DelVecchio