It had been a wild night in Cairo, and I woke up to see the second girl leaving the bed. Unfortunately, the third was something dubbed a “lecherous cuddler,” or, in modern vernacular, a “clinger.” (There is some inherent value in letting a swimsuit model rest her head on your chest while you smoke a cigarette — steadily and subtly building a pile of ash on her pillow, of course — but after 10 minutes, it’s gone a bit too far.) I had lost my cell phone in an Anisette drinking race earlier that week, and worse, I had ripped all three of the room’s phones out last night for a daring Wafflecone, so I couldn’t even make a business call to get out of this jam. My mind raced. Would I get out in time for the Schooner Bar cocktail hour? Would she figure out I had been cut out of the will? Would she ask me about myself? Borderline panicked, I searched the room for some escape. I even considered using an old Sherpa trick to bring my heart rate down to fewer than five beats per minute. Still, there was a 5 percent chance that I would put myself into a coma. I continued searching.

I hadn’t read this in far too long. I hope to read more from this budding columnist named Jack Waffles very soon!