Naked Came the Stripper

A collaborative series I contributed to.

When I awoke, my head felt like Barry Bonds had been using it for batting practice. My mouth was drier than a Steven Wright monologue in a Mormon church in the Dry Tortugas.
I lit up a cigarette. I started coughing like Morton Downey, Jr. playing "Camille" at the Hollywood Bowl during a smog alert. Then I remembered I didn't smoke. I tried to remember last night.
Oh, yeah. The Stripcreator's Ball. Everybody was there. Usually, on days like this, I have to do two things-- remember where I left my car, and return the one I took. But today I had other questions.
Where am I? Who am I? Where are my pants?

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