You are behind the wheel of a large automobile, racing to catch the first pitch of your local “baseball” team’s game that night. Your souped-up car careens down the highway, the rockin’ sounds of Stryper coursing through your veins like so much tepid lime juice. Suddenly, you hear a hideous screeching sound and realize that you’ve just run into a truck full of Austrian sausages.
As you survey the array of devastation and mangled schnitzel, it occurs to you to flee the scene. You quickly leap over the freeway’s guard railing and into the bed of a 1967 Ford pick-up truck. It is driven by none other than the former coach of the Kansas City Chiefs, Marty Schottenheimer. The truck travels for over twelve days, through various sections of Northern California.
Eventually, you hop out in an Arby’s parking lot in Lodi, California. You walk inside and notice that it’s pleasantly decorated, what with the streamers and all. “But that’s not what I’m here for!” you scream to no one in particular. As you are escorted out of the Arby’s, it becomes quite clear that maybe you shouldn’t be making such a scene. You are a prominently known figure in the garment industry, after all.
You look around you, surveying your new terrain like a watch dog on vacation from the Mob with a few hours to kill. Hunger gnaws your gut. Thirst nibbles your giblets. A small dog chews on a piece of boysenberry pie. You are startled by the gravelly voice of a nearby hoagie vendor.
“Hoagie?” the vendor asks, brandishing his buns before your weary eyes. He seems to be daring you to try something. You feel the rage build inside you, your murderous instincts now honed to a razor’s edge by the events of the past few days. Who does this hoagie vendor think he is, anyway?
You decide that this pompous bastard’s just about been as rude as he’s gonna be on this evening, dropping him to the pavement with a swift left hook. He’s quite startled when you jump on top of him and start to choke the life out of his hoagie-vending frame. Just as he’s about to pass out, you’re knocked unconscious by what you can vaguely identify as a boot to the back of the head.
You regain consciousness with a start. As you slowly get a handle on the scene you’re waking up to, you realize that you’re being cooked in a large black cauldron, much like Bugs Bunny in his day. Flames lick the sides of the huge pot as you float there in a sea of leeks, peas, turnips and crab legs. The flames cast maddening shadows around the room, and you see the laughing faces of various members of the U.S. Senate all around you.
Sen. Lindsey Graham lights a thick cigar and rings a small silver bell. An insultingly insolent manservant then appears and hands him a felt hat. Apparently he’d left it in the other room.
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