We're back! Just like Sexy

We're back! Not tanned, not rested, but better humans for the experiences we enjoyed over the past week. From what friends and police records tell us, we cut a swath through life and took no prisoners all while wearing the same underwear we started with.

This whole sordid affair started at the White House Correspondents’ Association dinner. We were able to procure/appropriate/steal an invite and get seated at the same table as Sanjaya and his/her mother. And let me tell you, when Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia and Sec'y of State, Condi Rice come up to shake the hand of that American Idol hermaphrodite rodeo clown, you have confirmation that birds now fly backwards and babies crap gold coins. By this point in the evening I needed to get properly numb and thanks to a couple of vicodin John Ashcroft's wife passed me in the foyer earlier, I was aces. Then, Rich Little took the stage. After an appropriately imposed 23-year absence from this particular function, the 70's era comedian and impressionist approached the dais and did an amazing impersonation of a has-been comedian sucking, crashing and burning. It was glorious. Let's face it, when Rich Little is the only talent you can scrape off the comedy shoe as not to offend, you know you got problems. Apparently I didn't keep my opinions to myself during Rich's performance and was summarily tossed from the room, dragged to the hotel kitchen and thrown in the massive refrigerator. I was interrogated amongst the rack of lamb and asparagus for about six hours by pissed off secret service spooks and then woke up wearing an orange jumpsuit in a Iowa corn field on Tuesday. Take note people, that's a f*ckin' weekend!

I knew I could get back to L.A. by calling up an old flame from college who helped me get through the rough spots financially speaking. Agnes was a very generous and attractive woman in an Elaine Stritch kind-of-way and she knew how to properly compensate young men who curried her favor. She was still living; in Des Moines, I needed plane fare and we'll leave it at that.

Once I arrived in L.A. I was going to stay with my old friend Kim Bassinger and her daughter, but apparently this was a bad time for them so I made other arrangements. I called my current employer, Representative and presidential candidate Duncan Hunter and asked if he could put me up in the "Duke Cunningham suite" at the Ritz-Carlton in Laguna; he made some calls and one town car and mini-bar later I was poolside. While lying there reading my green Vanity Fair I spotted Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds making out and dare say, petting in public. I politely asked them to get a goddamn room and they shot back "want to join us?". I was intrigued and thought about it a minute, but erred on the side of sanity when Ryan said I could be in charge of the camera and the raccoon. It was time to go home.