An egg and cheese is necessary to make the mind work.

I awoke this morning to find myself on my couch, rather than my bed. I was not frightened, for this phenomenon had occurred before - several times. It was not the sleeping on the couch that bothered me. It was the waking mid-morning with shoes on, but no pants. Socks, shoes - yes. Pants - no.

Rolling to a sitting position, I took inventory of the surrounding room. A half eaten half of some roast beef and bread type monster rested on the table in front of me. From the taste in my mouth, I reckoned I was the intrepid hero to take on and slay the beast. From the look of a torn bag and corn-puffed entrails, cheese doodles lost the battle as well. My fingers had the powder-orange blood stains to prove my victory over the vicious mob of crispy deliciousness. An empty bottle of scotch lay on the floor next to the table. Something in my head told me that very scotch was the loyal side kick that assisted me in conquering the previous night and all the enemies I encountered on my adventures.

Adventures? - I thought... not now. I must find my pants.

I stood up and marveled, for a moment, at the polar bears on my boxers. There were more than twenty bears on the front side alone. It was a fair bet approximately the same amount made their dens on the rear. Each bear was wearing a Santa Claus hat. Apparently nobody had told these bears it was spring in New York City. That type of apparel is not only out of style and season, it might also attract the attention of a suspicious and detail oriented police man. The bears seemed to have already considered this hypothetical; they were on sleds for a quick get-away.

I'm staring at my crotch, aren't I? Yes. Yes, I've been staring at my crotch for at least three minutes now... neck hurts.

A quick survey of the floor provided no hint as to the location of the missing pants. I noted, with some interest and dismay, a trail of beer cans leading from the living room, around the dog-leg left in the hallway, to the bedroom. Hansel and Gretel were now of age, and seemed to have a drinking problem. The first step to follow the be-canned trail of liquid hops and barley landed my be-shoed left foot on top of an electronic neck massager covered in grape jelly. Whether the jelly was lubrication or sustenance, someone brilliant had handled that shimmy stick. I continued following the conga line of beer, leaving a grape trail of my own.

I stopped in awe upon entering the bedroom. On the previously clean, white wall to the back of the room now resided a giant, grape smiley face at least five feet in diameter. A talk bubble skewing out from the gleeful smile stated bluntly "Raspberries are for hobos and shoe salesmen!"

I followed the beer to a closed bathroom door and knocked. No answer. Opening the door I spotted a magnificent site. Harold lay fully clothed on the floor, grape jelly surrounding his mouth forming a sort of twisted Welch's smile. His two hands, covered in the muck as well, gripped the toilet. Inside the toilet was a melange of partially digested food, resembling a liquid painter's pallet. Is that a gyro? When did we get gyros? ... hungry now.

"Harold!"

No response. I picked up an empty beer can and threw it. The can struck him square on the side of the face. He grumbled.

"Harold! Get off the floor. You'll catch a cold, for god's sake!"

"... Smells like gyros."

"That's an interesting observation we'll discuss at a later point. For now, I need my pants. Have you seen my pants?"

"I want an egg and cheese."

"Good point. We need to think on this. An egg and cheese is necessary to make the mind work."

To Be Continued...