(WARNING! Unlike most of my site, this particular post is a tad dirty. And it's very rambly.)

Counting myself, I have only entered, or been entered by, two celebrities, and his name is synonomous with both sexy beach rescues and high-tech highway crime-fighting. Mind you, the episode I am about to relate is not one that I am proud of, but is rather a cautionary tale to those of you who still think you can go swimming in Bourbon Grotto with Lady Sparklecandy's alabaster thighs wrapped around your face without drowning. No. You'll drown, my friend, just like I did. And if you don't drown, you'll stumble to shore walking funnier than before.

I met David Hasselhoff in the Spring of '96, while shooting a guest spot on his smash hit show Baywatch Nights. I played a rogue nightclub owner slash private eye named Dash Brilliatine, who had just moved into the town in which the show takes place (it escapes me!), and was roguishly, sexily attempting to muscle in on Mitch Buchanan's (Hasselhoff's character) nightclub slash private eye business, using all the savvy roguish charm at my disposal to muscle in on...abort sentence. At any rate, in the episode (I believe it was called A Dash of Mitch and A Pinch of Dash) Dash and Mitch actually roguishly join forces to defeat their common enemy, a bellicose Cuban cockfight ring kingpin slash druglord named "El Pedo Del Diablo". We only shared three brief scenes, and two of them involved an intense karaoke face-off in Mitch's nightclub, so our actual dialogue didn't overlap much. However, due to a mutual tendency to antagonize and belittle the craft services staffers, we soon became fast friends.

Following the shoot, I stuck around for a few extra months just to hang with David and enjoy the nightlife of the town in which we had shot the show. We made superb carousing partners, harvesting eager starstruck hotties with ease, scaring up the 'tang with alarming frequency and precision. The potency inherent in our mere identities was so strong that the only opening line I needed to utter in order to initiate poonage with a fame-guzzling-booze-hussy was "Hi, I'm Andres du Bouchet," and the only line David needed to offer for the sugartrap to snap was "This is my friend - Andres du Bouchet."

We did have a third companion on these sexcursions, however:

Zeus' Nutsack.

A Zeus' Nutsack is a diabolical alcohol and drug cocktail in which you dump two shots of peach schnapps into a pint of Guinness, and then suck the whole thing up through two straws made of pure crack cocaine. One up your left nostril, one into your mouth. The right nostril is reserved for smoking a menthol cigarette at the same exact moment.

On a typical night, David and I would each do six or seven Zeus' Nutsacks. It was an unbelievable sensation, like shooting through psychedelic space on a giant Toblerone while the soundtrack to the original 1977 Star Wars film reverbrates through your perineum.

But Zeus' Nutsack giveth, and Zeus' Nutsack taketh away. After a rare (perhaps the only? too fuzzy to remember) unsuccesful evening of bearded-clam skeet shooting, David and I stumbled into his condo as the sun was just beginning to tickle the horizon, and we began to half-heartedly debate what to watch on tv - either a pay-per-view M. Night flick (I think the one where the chick turns out to be a dead dude) or our favorite infomercial (the one with the screaming pony-tailed guy on the perpetual pain cycle machine). We settled on Bareback Honcho Parade 18, a DVD that David produced from underneath his mattress. This would prove to be a warning shot that went unheeded by my Zeus' Nutsack-addled mind. As we settled in to watch the film, I swiftly drifted into unconsciousness.

I woke up what could have been minutes or maybe hours later, my head pounding dull. A painful weight pressing against my spine. My wrists sore and behind me. Were they...bound? No! Yes. As my world started to clarify, from Toblerone space jockeying to the nude prone now, I could start to make out my own blurry face in David's mirrored closet door. A tangerine masking-taped into my panic gurgling maw. A small length of blinking red Christmas lights somehow affixed to my forehead. The red light blipping back and forth across my sweat-streaked temple. I could see my clothes in a heap on the floor. A husky voice in my ear, mumbling the theme from Knight Rider - "duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah...bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah bah BAH!"

And that horrible weight upon me. Eager and hairy weight. David must have cycled through the Knight Rider theme 10 or 12 times, before saying:

"C'mon KITT. Someone's drowning. We've gotta...we've gotta go help the drowners. C'mon KITT. Turbo BOOST!"

On "Boost!" my worst fears were confirmed.

I don't know what I found more upsetting:

a) that David had gone so far over the edge, that his brain had become so addled by abuse, that his two hit shows were in his mind now one - in which a lifeguard saves people with the aid of an intelligent car?

b) That he was now inside me?

or c) That there was any debate as to which of those two things was more upsetting?

I don't know. All I know is that I consider this tale to be the wake-up call in my life. David and I parted ways. Awkwardly, of course. He never quite willing to admit what he had done. I never able to forgive. Or jog. But I think we're both better for it. Ironically, I think it's safe to say that this was the incident that scared me straight. The incident that steered me clear of the drugfog groupiefuck path.

This post is petering out. Almost done. No point to any of it really. Plunk.