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.