How To Even…Be A Pal, Bake A Cake, And Then End A Blog On The Somewhat Wholesome But Still Silly Note That Your Readers Have Come To Expect And Cherish

By Michael Gushue & CL Bledsoe

You wake up. It’s either Wednesday or Saturday. If it’s Wednesday you’re screwed because you’re supposed to be in Puerta Vallarta getting married, which you are clearly not. Where you clearly are is a city alley in winter lying on top of a partially deflated sex doll and empty cans of Tusker lager.

Your memories of the night before are as hazy as the ingredient list in a cup of gas station chili. How did you get here? No idea. Whose suspenders are you wearing? No idea. Why aren’t you wearing anything else except for the bottom half of pink bunny costume? No idea. But the mask is lying beside you, and, after you’ve put it on, you realize it’s full of vomit which may or may not be yours.

You have no wallet, cellphone, keys, or anything else. You do remember who you are, though: you’re Timmy. Beyond that, all bets are off.

You stagger to your feet and look around. There’s a bus pass on the ground which may be yours…