The sun’s coming up here on the Weisshorn. It’s quite beautiful, but this isn’t where I originally planned to wind up. My plane was sabotaged.
I have a list of suspects, but numero uno is this pinch-faced little weasel back at the Princeton Charter Club. I don’t belong to the Princeton Charter Club. I was awarded an honorary doctorate in Non-autonomic Hyperkinesiology – the study of making grown men flinch – and I flew to the university to make a speech recounting the time I wrestled an Indian boar for a Japanese game show (my topic was “Diversity”). As I walked off the dais, dodging panties the whole way, I was approached by this twerp who looked like a Brooks Brothers mannequin, right down to the Ken doll gender specificity. He shook my hand – for a second there I thought he’d slipped me a sandwich baggie full of meringue – and told me that the Charter Club was meeting later that evening and I would be most welcome blah blah considered for membership blah blah the best of us is lower than a dog blah blah blah the whole nine. I politely refused.
That is, until I got a look at his girl.
She was the kind of woman that would make you re-think evolution. No random mutation plus non-random natural selection honed slowly over a millions of years could be responsible for that figure.
She walked right past the ferret, lifted a woman’s undergarment off my shoulder, and said, “Interesting fashion choice.”
“It’s called ‘postmodern panty chic’, you’ll read about it in GQ exactly three months from today.”
“So you’re quite the clothes horse,” she said.
“A thoroughbred,” I said. I was about to put the finishing touch on her with a line about studs and oats and feedbags – trust me, it would have been devastating – when the twerp cleared his throat.
“Your boyfriend is gargling at you,” I said.
She licked her teeth and said she’ll see me later on.
I said she sure would.
I was due in Zurich the next day for a Swiss television interview, but I told myself the Swiss would have to wait. There was a matter of utmost urgency requiring my attention at the Princeton Charter Club. As I watched it sashay away from me, I noticed the polecat was glaring at me.
I shrugged. He turned.
It was going to be an interesting evening.
Little did I know I’d board my private jet the next morning only to have it crash land in the Alps, leaving me stranded on the Weisshorn watching the sun come up.
How it all went down will have to wait for next time. There’s a mountain lion creeping up about three feet away from me as I write this. He’ll go great with a ’73 Chateau Margaux.