My Relapse, Part V

I didn't know which was more surprising: that I was in the zoo stealing animal narcotics with Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston, or that Pat O'Brien was being released from rehab. I asked him if he really felt he was ready to head back out into the world.

"Oh, you bet I am," he said. "The Insider needs me big time. I have to work the party for the premiere of Rosie O'Donnell's retard movie next week."

"But it seems like you have a lot more work to do in group," I said.

"No, I'm all worked out, Ad-Rod. I didn't have that big of a problem in the first place. Just checked in for the publicity. Worked like a freaking charm!"

"What did Sheryl Anne say?"

"She wished me luck, etc.," he said. "Gave me the names of a dozen shrinks she recommends. Told me never to leave a message on her answering machine. You know, same old same old. But don't worry: I put in a good word for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mentioned how you wanted to go crazy with her and that you're a bulldog in bed."

"You what?"

"She got all flustered. Girlfriend looked hot, though. You lucky dog. If I wasn't your homie I'd bag that chicken in heartbeat."

I was devastated. How could I ever face Sheryl Anne again? Our patient/counselor relationship would never be the same. I guess a part of me wanted her to know how I felt, but I wanted to do it on my own terms, like while playing checkers with her and listening to the soundtrack from Flashdance. But now that dream is ruined. God damn Pat O'Brien.

He patted me on the shoulder and went over to help Whitney Houston open her bottle of Emu Valium. I watched them unsuccessfully attempt to remove the cap. Then Whitney threw-up some more pita chips.

I looked at the bottle of Otter OxyContin in my hand. Suddenly, popping a few of the pink pills didn't seem like such a bad idea. What's a few otter pills? Wasn't like I was going to hurt anyone by taking them. Might piss off a few otters, but who cares? Plus it would get my mind off Sheryl Anne for a while, or at the least make what Pat said to her seem not as embarrassing. I hoped so, anyway.

"That's some tight shit right there," Bobby Brown said, gesturing to the otter pills. He was shirtless and his nipples were covered in ointment.

"Rhino cream," he said. "It's better than sex."

"How many pills should I take?" I asked him.

"How much you weigh?"

"Around 180 lbs."

"Okay, then that would make you, like, 18 otters. So take 36."

"36? Seems like a lot."

"You're 18 otters, G. Don't worry. It's gonna be off the hook."

Off the hook. Yes. That's exactly what I wanted right then and there. To be completely off the hook and inaccessible to everyone and everything.

So I took them. All 36. They went down easily; it was satisfying to find that I still swallowed pills like a pro.

"When will I start to feel it?" I asked him.

"Real soon," he said.

"'Cause I don't feel anything yet."

"Just wait."

I propped myself up on an examination table and watched Whitney Houston and Pat O'Brien continue to struggled to get the Emu Valium open. She held the bottle on a table while he tried to turn the cap.

"So that's how many crazy celebrities it takes to open a bottle of Emu Valium," I muttered.

"What's that?" Bobby Brown asked me, his face now covered in Rhino cream.

"Nothing."

"You feeling it yet?"

I wasn't sure. Other than craving abalone and a water slide I felt completely normal.

"It's gonna happen any second," he said.

"I can't wait," I replied.

"Me neither."

"Why?"

"Are you a homo?"

"No," I said.

And then we kissed. I'd never been kissed by a man before, let alone by one whose lips were covered in Rhino cream. Compared to recent girlfriends, he wasn't that bad a kisser. Can't say that I enjoyed it, but it was worth it enough to say I had the experience.

"You feeling it now?" he asked me, nibbling on my lower lip.

"I would expect so," I said.

Then I felt something hit the side of my head. It was Whitney Houston whacking me with a snake splint. "Stop kissing on my Bobby!" she screamed. "Stop kissing on my Bobby!"

"Baby, chill! Baby, chill!" Bobby Brown said holding her back.

"Now we're talking!" Pat O'Brien said, unbuttoning his shirt.

Suddenly, we heard a loud crash, followed by the sound of footsteps. Moments later, a man with a large video camera, followed by another man carrying a portable light stand and a woman wearing headphones holding a large microphone entered the room.

"Oh shit!" Bobby Brown yelled. "My reality TV show crew! They found me! Run!"

I don't remember much of anything after that, just lots of running and a hallucination about playing with a turtle by a creek. Nothing else.

I woke up the next morning in my room at the rehab center. I went to Pat O'Brien's door to see if he had made it back, but then remembered he was gone. The only sign of him ever being there was the framed photograph of Mary Hart next to his bed. He must have forgotten it. I picked up the photo and stared into Mary Hart's perky, yet sad eyes.

It was then that I realized that rehab wouldn't be the same without Pat O'Brien. Despite his self-centeredness and his sexism and his ignorance and his vulgarity and his Eskimophobia and his less than average volleyball skills and his penchant for removing his shirt, he made rehab kind of exciting. And he was an excellent mandolinist. Couldn't believe myself for thinking it, but I was going to miss being stuck in rehab with Pat O'Brien.

And then, either as a sub-conscious tribute or in a post-Otter OxyContin comedown, I did something I never thought I'd do, but which in retrospect felt completely right: I buried my face in my hands and cried.

My Relapse, Part IV

The zoo late at night is kind of scary. It's dark and full of menacing animal sounds. And Whitney Houston vomiting up pita chips. It's nothing like the zoo I visited when I was kid. Still, I tried to make the best of it.

Bobby Brown's large, gruff cousin met us at the gate. Bobby gave him a fist full of money and we were in. We hit the crocodile tanks first. Even though they were hard to see, Whitney was thrilled. She pointed to a big one lurking in a corner.

"I'm gonna call that croc 'Bull from Night Court,'" she said, "because he looks like Bull from Night Court."

After that we made our way to the monkey cages. Most of them were asleep. One orangutan was awake, though. Pat O'Brien tried to get its attention by tapping on the glass, but it ignored him.

"That monkey know who I am?" Pat O'Brien asked. He seemed confused.

"Probably not," I said.

"What? You're kidding, right?"

"No. He's a monkey. He doesn't know about celebrity interviewers."

Pat O'Brien paused to ponder my answer. Then he shook his head and laughed.

"Ha-ha! Good one, Adamski!" he said. "Almost had me there for a sec."

Before I could convince him that I wasn't joking and that monkeys really had no clue who he was, Bobby Brown tapped our shoulders and led us to an unlit room adjacent to the monkey cages.

"This place is the joint," Bobby Brown said, flicking on the lights to reveal what appeared to be a veterinary examination room.

"What animals are in here?" I asked.

"None," he said. "But that is." He pointed to a large cage that contained bottles of what appeared to be prescription medicine. His large, gruff cousin fumbled with a ring of keys, then unlocked it.

"Showtime!" Bobby Brown said.

"Oh, baby, get me some of that Emu Valium," Whitney Houston said.

"Coming right up, baby."

"We came to the zoo for drugs?" I asked.

"Best shit in the city," Bobby Brown said throwing me a bottle of pink pills. "Otter OxyContin."

"But I don't want any Otter OxyContin," I said.

"Oh, come on, bro, loosen up," Pat O'Brien said, throwing his arm around me. "Think of this as my going away party."

"Your going away party?"

"Yep, bro. I'm gone. Filed my papers today. Bye-bye rehab!"

"Hey, Pat OB," Bobby Brown called over. "What you up for? Some Panda Powder?"

"Nothing for me, thanks," Pat O'Brien replied. "I'm doing Dr. Phil next week. Says he's gonna test my whizz before he pays me my guest fee."

My Relapse, Part III

I tried not to let the fact that we were riding in a stolen floral delivery van bother me. Instead, I decided to enjoy the freedom away from the rehab center while I could. Plus it was hard not to be excited about getting to see some world class kickboxing.

But after a while I noticed that the route Bobby Brown was taking was leading us away from where the arena was. Being polite, I asked him if he was taking a shortcut.

"No, man, I don't know any shortcut," he said.

"But the arena is in the other direction," I said.

"What arena?"

"The arena where the kickboxing bout is."

"Kickboxing?"

"Yes."

"Are you a homo?"

"No," I said.

"Ad-Rock," Pat O'Brien said, slapping me on my knee. "Gotta fess up to you, homes: we're not going to the kickboxing bout."

"We're not?" I asked.

"No, bro. Sorry."

"Kickboxing!" Whitney Houston cackled from the back row. "My Bobby is the best kickboxing man ever!" Her mouth was full of pita chips.

"I loves you, baby!" Bobby Brown yelled to her.

"I loves you, baby!" Whitney Houston yelled back.

"Where are we going, then?" I asked.

"The zoo," Pat O'Brien said.

"The zoo?"

"Yeah," Bobby Brown said. "I got a cousin who works the night shift there. It's good shit."

"Oh," I said.

"I wanna see the crocodiles!" Whitney Houston screamed.

"All right, baby, Bobby's gonna take you to see the crocs!" Bobby yelled back to her.

"Crocs are wack!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"Crocs are wack!" Whitney Houston shouted.

"Crocs are wack!" They shouted in unison.

My Relapse, Part II

So there we were, riding in a van to the big kickboxing bout. It was kind of fun at first. We sang along to the radio and played a few car games. Pat O'Brien led a round of "Who am I?" Whitney Houston figured out he was Billy Bush on the 9th guess. Not too bad.

And you wouldn't think it, but Bobby Brown is a very good driver. I was nervous at first, as his track record doesn't suggest he'd be the world's best driver, but he studiously obeyed all the street signs and light signals.

"You're a good driver," I told him, hoping he wouldn't reply by asking me if I was a homo again.

"Gotta be," he said.

"Yep, road safety is an important thing."

"That and this van is jacked," Bobby Brown said. "Can't risk running a light and getting busted by the 5-0."

"Oh," I said, looking around and suddenly realizing I was in a floral delivery van. There were old stems and petals everywhere.

I asked Pat O'Brien if he knew the van was stolen.

"Yep," he said. "KaBloom!"

"I wish you had told me beforehand," I said.

"What, bro? Can't handle the thug life?" He lifted his shirt as if to reveal a tattoo on his stomach. There wasn't one.

"No," I said.

"Me neither," Pat O'Brien replied.

And then he buried his face in his hands and cried.

My Relapse, Part I

Well, I had a relapse over the weekend. I'm pretty embarrassed about it. Angry, too. I've been working on taking responsibility for my own actions so I'm not going to blame Pat O'Brien. I probably should. But I won't.

It all started the other night when I got a knock on my door. Surprises of surprises, it was Pat O'Brien.

"Bobby and Whitney are outside in a van," he said. "They scored some tickets to the kickboxing title bout. Grab your stuff and let's go."

"But we don't have permission to leave," I said.

"Don't worry about it, bro. Nobody will find out."

I love kickboxing. It's my only vice. I mean, besides pain killers and checkers and the music of Irene Cara.

I peeked into the hallway. All was quiet.

"You sure we won't get caught?" I asked.

"No, bro. It's cool," Pat O'Brien said. "Bobby slipped security some benjamins."

Against my better judgment I went with him. Guess that's just a testament to how much I love kickboxing. I heart Yerzhan Shegenov.

When we got to the van, Bobby Brown greeted me with a "What up?"

"Hi, Bobby," I said.

"Are you a homo?" he asked me.

"No," I said.

"Hey, baby!" Whitney Houston yelled to me from the backseat. She was eating from a bag pita chips. There were crumbs all over her shirt.

"Hi, Whitney," I replied.

"Where's Joaquin at?" Bobby asked Pat O'Brien.

"He wasn't invited," he answered gruffly. "No Eskimos allowed."

As we pulled out of the parking lot, Bobby Brown flipped on the radio. Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam sang about loving somebody from head to toe. They were very underrated.

"This is going to be better than Night Court!" Whitney Houston beamed.

"Just as long as we don't end up in night court," I joked.

Nobody laughed.

I had a dream about Sheryl Anne last night. We were cast members in a touring production of Fame. I was Leroy and she was Coco. The play was just like the movie except that Leroy and Coco were lovers and we got to make out on stage in front of everybody. It was awesome.

Sheryl Anne was a great kisser in the dream. Her lips were soft and our teeth rarely clashed. Afterwards we hung out backstage and talked about checkers and kickboxing. She really seemed into me.

But then Pat O'Brien showed up. Needless to say, the dream pretty much sucked the rest of the way. It was weird too because sometimes he'd be Pat O'Brien, other times he'd be a seal pup. And he wasn't any less annoying as a seal pup. I mean, seal pups are usually pretty cute. But the Pat O'Brien seal pup wasn't at all. He kept barking about how African-American women thought he was so sexy.

"Bark-bark! Black chicks dig me!" he'd say.

It made it hard for me to get anywhere with Sheryl Anne. I hoped it would turn into an erotic dream, but with the Pat O'Brien seal pup hanging around that wasn't going to happen.

"Bark-bark! I got busy with Jackée in her trailer once! She said I was the best she's ever had!"

I tried to add Joaquin Phoenix to my dream, so he could come along in his caribou parka and club the Pat O'Brien seal pup to death, but I failed. Instead I wound up accidentally changing the dream altogether. Sheryl Anne and the touring production of Fame were suddenly gone, and all that was left was me and the Pat O'Brien seal pup. We were at Walgreens, waiting in line to get our Vicodin prescriptions filled.

"Bark-bark! I call dibs on the piece of ass running the cash register," the Pat O'Brien seal pup said. "She is so fucking hot."

I can't remember what happened in the rest of the dream. Thank god.

It seems "Flo's" monkey assistant and Joaquin Phoenix have hit it off. They've been hanging out together a lot. Not sure what the connection is, other than they both smell like monkey assistant. Yesterday, I discovered them grooming each other. It was kind of disgusting.

"I find primates fascinating," Joaquin Phoenix told me, picking a dead gnat out of the monkey assistant's fur. He speaks as though every word out of his mouth is a precious nugget of truth. "They're like people, only different. How delightful!"

I'm worried that "Flo" isn't getting the required care from her monkey. Whatever that is. I've never actually seen him do much for "Flo" other than empty her drool cup and hiss at Pat O'Brien when he gets too close to her.

"I'm going to ask Bruckheimer if there is a part for the monkey assistant in the film," Joaquin Phoenix said.

"I don't think there are any monkeys in the Arctic," I said.

"Oh, I know that," he replied. "But perhaps he could play the part of a penguin or something. I think it would be fantastic if Nanook had a little penguin companion."

"Penguins don't live in the Arctic either," I said.

"I know that," he said. "Now please go away." He glared at me like he wanted to kickbox.

"They only live in the southern hemis-"

"Ufulubusaaqtuq, monkey assistant!" Joaquin ordered, and with that "Flo's" monkey assistant walked over to me and began humping my leg. I got the point and left.

I'm still finding dead gnats on my pants. Damn monkey assistant.

Group was a disaster yesterday. "Tony" was in the middle of another endless story about his childhood dog when Joaquin Phoenix took a dump in his pants.

"Damn, Joaquin!" Whitney Houston complained. "That is soooo not Night Court."

"I'm sorry if I have offended you, Miss Houston," Joaquin Phoenix replied, "but if I am to play the role of an Inuit, I must live like an Inuit, and therefore, I must defecate in my pants like an Inuit."

"Well, you're one nasty-ass Eskimo!" Whitney Houston said.

"Inuit!" he answered. "Not Eskimo, Inuit. It's the more respectful term!"

I looked over to a trembling Pat O'Brien. He appeared to be a moment away from burying his face in his hands and crying. Then he signed something to me I didn't understand. I bet he's awful at charades. Eventually he gave up and screamed, "I hate Eskimos!"

"Not Eskimos!" Joaquin Phoenix shouted. "Inuit, you hate the Inuit!"

Sheryl Anne did her best to try and calm everybody down. She wore a sexy blue blouse and her skin was immaculate. Unfortunately, her efforts were to no avail.

"Nobody here understands what it's like to be serious about their craft!" Joaquin Phoenix said.

"My Bobby is serious about lovin' me!" Whitney Houston yelled.

"Your Bobby should have never left New Edition!" Joaquin Phoenix yelled back at her, his dirty face streaked with tears.

"Don't talk bad about my Bobby, Eskimo!"

"Inuit!"

So Joaquin Phoenix has been here for five days now and I'm pretty sure he's yet to take a shower. He wears that caribou parka 24/7. Must be sweating up storm under there. I admire his dedication to preparing for his role, but he's making everybody nauseous. Big time.

"The Inuit do not bathe!" Joaquin Phoenix yelled at me, as we passed each other in the hallway. Clearly he's a little defensive about it. Guess he noticed how I had covered my nose when I walked by. "If I am to prepare for the role of Nanook, I must not wash myself! Bruckheimer is producing it! I'm going to be bigger than Nic Cage! And the Inuit don't bathe!"

I'm not sure where he's getting his information. The Inuit must at the least bathe from time to time. I'd press him about it, but then I'd have to get closer to him. It's not worth it. He smells like rotten sea lion.

"They really don't bathe!" he reiterated, as I ran to my room as quickly and politely as I could. "Ever see a shower stall in an igloo? I think not!"

Predictably, the sight of Joaquin Phoenix dressed up as Nanook of the North has freaked out our resident Eskimo-phobe, Pat O'Brien.

"An Eskimo is upon us," he whispered to me during morning yoga. I've never seen him so stressed out. "Remember," he said, "you promised to protect me."

"He's just preparing for a role," I replied. "Don't think he's too much to worry about."

"Shh, bro. He'll hear you," Pat O'Brien warned. "Eskimos have the best sense of hearing in the animal world."

"But he's not really an Esk—"

"Come to think of it, that might be dolphins," he said. "I confuse Eskimos and dolphins sometimes. Dolphins hear well, too. I'm pretty sure of that. Anyway, it doesn't matter, from now on to be safe let's communicate in sign language."

"I don't know sign language," I said.

"Me neither," he said, "but deaf people can do it, so how hard can it be?"

To no one's surprise, Joaquin Phoenix has checked in. The last thing this rehab center needs is another troubled celebrity, but whatever, I'll live. I liked him okay enough in Gladiator. And as actors with cleft lips go, he's tops. By far. Here's hoping he can play volleyball.

He seems a little odd, though. Kind of a brooder. Plus his appearance is a bit unsettling. He's grown his hair out and he has a big bushy beard. You can barely recognize him. Doesn't help that he wears a giant parka made from caribou wherever he goes. He says he's preparing for a role in a remake of Nanook of the North.

"Bruckheimer is producing it," he told me. "I'm going to be the next Nic Cage. I slept with Lisa Marie Presley last Thursday. Things are rolling."

"Yeah, but you're in rehab," I pointed out.

"Oh, this is just for research," he said. "The Inuit are notorious drunks. I'm not, but they are. Yeah, this is all for the film. Alcoholic? Nope, not me. I'm just pretending to be an alcoholic because I'm pretending to be Nanook. Bruckheimer is producing. Shamu might play the whale. But I don't have a drinking problem. Just doing research here. Simple as that. Yep."

And then Joaquin Phoenix buried his face in his seal-skin mittens and cried.

Pat O'Brien had another one of his bad Eskimo dreams last night. He knocked on my door around 3 am all shivery and breathless.

"I don't want to be an Eskimo," he told me.

"It was a dream, Pat," I said.

"I know, but still, I really don't want to be an Eskimo."

"Okay."

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me dead in the eyes. "Promise me I'll never be an Eskimo," he said. His robe had come undone and I could see everything.

"I promise you will never be an Eskimo," I told him.

"Promise me that you'll protect me from Eskimos," he said.

"What?"

"Promise me that should an Eskimo ever try to abduct or molest me that you will protect me from them."

"Why would an Eskimo want to abduct or mol--"

"Never mind that!" he said. "Just promise me you won't let the Eskimos get me!" He was a crazy man.

"I promise to protect you from Eskimos, Pat," I said.

"Really?"

"Really."

Then he gave me a big hug. I could feel his scrotum against my thigh. "You're good people, A-Man," he said, "good people."

"Thank you," I said, carefully freeing my thigh from his scrotum.

"Oh, my bad," Pat O'Brien said, noticing. "Didn't mean to ugly bump you, bro."

"That's okay," I said, wanting to run away as far as I could.

"You gotta admit, though," Pat O'Brien said, looking down at his penis and testicles in admiration, "I'm like a Greek god down there."

A new resident has joined us. For once it's someone not famous. Her name is "Carly" and she's 18. Lots of attitude so far. Thinks she's too cool for us or something. Always rolling her eyes and groaning.

Pat O'Brien wasted very little time to make a play for her. Within minutes of "Carly's" arrival he was in her room doing push-ups.

"And I should be impressed why?" I heard her ask him.

At lunch I mentioned to Pat O'Brien that maybe he should lay off because of the age difference and all.

"Hey, bro," he said, "I know I have farts older than her, but I can't help her wanting some Pat-Daddy action."

I thought about asking him what exactly he meant by "Pat-Daddy action" but I decided he probably would have responded by burying his face in his hands and crying. I didn't really have the patience to deal with that. I just wanted to eat my tuna sandwich.

Transcripts of IM chats left up by Pat O'Brien after he used my computer:

IrishTickler: What's shakin'?

BrendaBeCool: Not much

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

BrendaBeCool has logged off.

..........

IrishTickler: Hey! Wanna chat!

Kerri435: Sure

IrishTickler: asl?

Kerri435: 18/f/seattle...you?

IrishTickler: 19/M/LA

Kerr435: cool

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

IrishTickler: You still there?

IrishTickler: Hello?

Kerri435 has logged off.

...........

IrishTickler: What up?

FoxyMama: Hey, baby

IrishTickler: Wanna have cybersex?

FoxyMama: Mmm. Okay

IrishTickler: You do?

FoxyMama: Yep

IrishTickler: Oh

FoxyMama: Let's do this, baby. Show me what you got

FoxyMama: FoxyMama is feeling frisky. What you wearing?

FoxyMama: Come on, baby, tell me what you want to do to me

IrishTickler has logged off.

Yesterday I returned "Flo's" copy of Atlas Shrugged (way too long) and discovered Pat O'Brien doing push-ups in her room.

"Forty-nine…Fifty…Fifty-one…" he said, counting each rep.

"Flo" just sat there. I could tell by the way her mouth clenched her drool cup that she was annoyed.

"…Fifty-two…Fifty-three...Sixty…"

Pat O'Brien wore John Stockton-type shorts. Far too much thigh was on display.

"…Seventy-seven…Eighty-four...Eighty-five!" He popped up from the floor. I saw a brief flash of testicle.

"There. All done!" he cheered, offering a low five to "Flo."

Her monkey assistant hissed at him.

"Oh, right," he said. "I forgot. My bad."

He gave a low five to himself instead.

"What are you doing?" I asked him.

"Are these guns loaded or are these guns loaded?" he said, admiring his arms. "You know, P-Diddy once told me my shit was TIGHT."

"Ass. Hole," "Flo" said through her computer voice box thingy.

Awkward pause.

"Her computer voice box thing must be broken again," Pat O'Brien said.

"I don't think so," I answered.

"Anyway, look at her," he said. "H-O double-T HOTT."

"Flo" grumbled.

"She reminds me of Taylor Dayne," he went on, "except in a wheelchair and with a monkey assistant."

"I'm. A. Lesbian," "Flo" said.

And then Pat O'Brien buried his face in his hands and cried.

We had a graduation party for "Warren" last night. He's completed his 28 days. I'm proud of him and think he might just be clean for good. 13th time is going to be a charm. I can feel it.

Sheryl Anne made a cake for the occasion. It was the best cake I've ever had. She gave "Warren" a big hug and told him one last time how much she believed in him.

I can't wait for my hug. She has great smelling hair. I know, because one time I smelled it when she wasn't looking. We were talking in the hallway and she dropped her pencil and we both bent down to pick it up and for a brief moment her hair dangled in my face. It smelled awesome. Like the most expensive high-end shampoo.

"Tony" took "Warren's" departure the hardest. "Warren" was always the best at listening to his endless childhood dog stories. "Tony" spent most of the party sitting alone on the sofa in his bunny suit nibbling on veggie sticks. I felt sorry for him because even though his childhood dog stories are boring, he's a grown man in a bunny suit and that's kinda sad. So I joined him on the sofa.

"How's it going, Tony?" I asked.

"Okay," he said. "Just thinking about Buster. You know, one time we were walking behind my grandpa's farm and we came upon this injured crow in our path. Both its wings looked broken. Of course you'd think Buster would have gone after it, you know, being a dog and all. But you know, he didn't. Instead he just, you know, looked at it like he was concerned. Then--"

"Hey, bros," Pat O'Brien said, joining us. "'Flo' is giving me all kind of signals tonight."

"Tony' is in a middle of a story, Pat," I said.

"I am so in there."

"Pat, let him finish his story."

"My bad, bro," Pat said. "Finish your story, Bunny Man."

"So, you know, you'd think Buster would try to eat the defenseless crow," Tony continued, "because he's a dog and all, but he didn't. He was a wonderful animal. But then all of a sudden -"

"A snake came out of nowhere and devoured the bird!" Pat said.

"No, that's not what happened," Tony said.

"And then Buster wrestled with the snake!"

"No, they didn't wres-"

"And then they rolled over a ledge and fell down into the deep canyon and exploded!"

"No."

"And then Barbi Benton and Adrienne Barbeau showed up in form-fitting rescue team suits and comforted you!"

"No, Pat," "Tony" said, "it wasn't like that at all."

"Well, what happened then?" Pat O'Brien asked.

"Well," "Tony" answered. "just as I was about to try and save it, my grandpa showed up with his shotgun and he shot the crow to put it out of its misery."

"That must have been hard to see, 'Tony'" I said.

"It was awful," he said. "I still remember the look in Buster's eyes. He was so confused."

"Well, I like my version better," Pat O'Brien said. "Nothing like rescue team babes. I once interviewed Adrienne Barbeau. I say she still has the best set of mamms in the business."

"Tony" and I just sat there looking at him.

"Now, if you excuse me guys," Pat O'Brien said, rising from his seat. "I gotta go masturbate."

And then "Tony" buried his face in his bunny paws and cried.

Played checkers with Whitney Houston last night. She didn't present much of a challenge. Her enthusiasm for the game was high, but she kept on confusing the rules with those of Hungry Hungry Hippo.

"Where's that hungry hippo at?" she asked. "Bet he's real hungry by now!"

I won eleven games in a row. It wasn't particularly satisfying, but coming off my loss to Pat O'Brien I took it.

"Checkers isn't nearly as good as Night Court," Whitney Houston complained.

"Well, they're two completely different things," I replied. Her Night Court references were becoming almost as annoying as "Tony's" stories about his childhood dog. "One's a game, the other is a television show," I said. "Not sure how you can compare them."

She glared at me like she wanted to kickbox. "You are NOT better than Night Court," she said.

Then she stormed off.

The sweat stain she left on my chair is still there. From a certain angle it appears to be in the shape of an otter.

Our rehab clinic volleyball team is now 2-0. We beat Billy Joel's team yesterday. Wasn't even close. Whitney Houston's sweaty serves were more than they could handle.

Billy Joel's reckless playing style cost them a lot of points, too. I lost count of the number of times he crashed into the net. He was a good sport, though. At the end of the game he favored us with a rendition of "Leave a Tender Moment Alone." It was awesome.

But then Pat O'Brien broke out his mandolin and challenged Joel to a musical duel.

"What? Is the 'Piano Man' chicken?" he taunted.

Fortunately, Billy Joel took the high road and ignored him. After a couple of minutes he just walked away and straight into a wall.

"What a pussy," I heard Pat O'Brien mutter before launching into a shirtless version of "Sky Pilot" to an audience of none.

We watched the NCAA men's final last night. Was surprised to discover how big a fan Whitney Houston is of college basketball. She knew the stats of every player.

"Sean May is better than Night Court!" she'd say every time North Carolina's star player made a shot.

I had Illinois in the pool, so I wasn't too happy about the outcome. "Warren" won the thing and vowed not to spend the winnings on Mexican speedballs.

I believed him.

Pat O'Brien ruined my favorite part of night, "One Shining Moment," the montage of tournament highlights that closes out the broadcast every year. He told Luther Vandross anecdotes throughout the whole thing.

"Luther is my homie," he boasted. "We ran with the same gang in a fat farm one summer."

"Please be quiet, Pat," I said.

"He asked me to be an extra in his 'Power of Love' video, but I couldn't do it that day. Had to interview Joan Van Ark."

"Pat! Please!"

"Luther sang at my 45th birthday. That was special. He told me he wouldn't sing for just anybody at their birthday party. That meant he liked me. He liked me a lot."

"Shut up, Pat!"

"Haven't seen him since his stroke," Pat O'Brien said. "Sick people creep me out."

And then he buried his face in his hands and cried.

Pat O'Brien was late for group yesterday. At first we thought it was in protest of Sheryl Anne taking away his foosball privileges for the O'Punk'd incident, but when he showed up an hour later he acted like nothing was wrong.

"Top O'Brien the morning, my peeps!" he said, plopping down on the couch.

"Where have you been?" "Debbie" asked him.

"Sleeping the sleep of the just, Debster," he replied.

"Group started an hour ago," I said.

"Good one, Adamski," he said with a chuckle.

"My Bobby loves me so much!" Whitney Houston said.

"No really, it did," I said to Pat O'Brien. "Group started at 10. It's now 11."

"You forget to set your clock forward for Daylight Savings Time?" "Tony" asked.

"No, no, Bunny Man," Pat O'Brien answered, "I don't practice Daylight Savings Time."

He looked at us like he thought we were all dying to know why he didn't practice Daylight Savings Time. Truth is we all kinda were, but none of us wanted to give him the satisfaction of appearing interested in his life. We managed to hold out for a few seconds, but then "Debbie" broke down and asked him why he didn't practice Daylight Savings Time.

"I don't want one less hour of me," he said with a snort. "Ho!"

Then he offered a low-five to "Debbie," who out of politeness gave him one.

I wouldn't have.

Antsy and bored, I decided to risk it and venture out of my room. When I poked my head through the doorway I saw Tommy Lee coming down the hall.

That's never a good sign.

So I closed the door.

Pat O'Brien was up to something. I could feel it.

Then I heard a crashing sound. Shouting followed.

Against my better judgment, I went out to see what was going on.

In the common room I found "Tony" pinned against the wall by Tommy Lee. Sheryl Anne and "Warren" were trying to pry them apart.

"Why you wanna mess with me, bro!?!" Tommy yelled.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir," "Tony" pleaded. He was on the verge of tears. Being in that bunny suit wasn't doing him any favors, either. "Honest," he said.

Then Pat O'Brien emerged from behind a curtain, snickering. "Dude, you've just been O'Punk'd!"

Tommy Lee, grinned, released "Tony" and gave Pat O'Brien a big hug. "Bro, you are inSANE!" he said.

"O'Punk'd!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" Tommy Lee shouted.

Everyone else just stood there, speechless. "Tony's" bunny ears flopped down over his face.

"How'd you get in here?" Sheryl Anne asked Tommy Lee. She was furious and beautiful.

"No clue," he said. "I'm so shitfaced it's crazy!"

"O'Punk'd!" Pat O'Brien shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" Tommy Lee shouted.

"O'Punk'd!" they shouted in unison.

Then I heard the hyper-jingle of the security guards' key rings barreling down the hall and decided I'd seen enough. So I went back to my room and listened to "Oh, What a Feeling" nine times in a row.

I'm a bit on edge this morning because it's April Fools' Day and I am in rehab with Pat O'Brien. All day yesterday he kept dropping hints that he might pull something "wild and crazy" like his "boy" Ashton.

I'm thinking I might just stay in my room today.

You know, there should rehab for being in rehab with Pat O'Brien. There really should. It would be some place far away from here where everyone wears shirts and is moustache-less.