I was enjoying the freshly packed powder at Zermatt when the most interesting woodland creature caught my eye. Unfortunately I also caught a tree trunk with the side of my neck, breaking my clavicle.
I was clubbing on Mykonos until 6 a.m. enjoying a dollar-fifty pack of Davidoff’s. After drinking myself into a profound stupor, I found myself in the arms of a minotaur: half-human, half-beast.
Working on my St. Tropez tan with the aid of my tube of Bain de Soleil, I discovered that the exotic balm did not work completely as advertised. The bright orange hue on my back and shanks did not achieve the desired effect. Alors!
Shooting craps at Monte Carlo is a risky proposition, especially when you’re as loaded as the dice. Losing the shirt off my back was only the beginning; it took twelve stout men to part me from my Old Navy capri pants.
Phat Tuesday’s in Cancun was great until the DJ put on a remix of “Back that Ass Up.” The pumping rhythm induced a 350-pound woman to strip off her skirt and, in fact, back that ass up...directly into my face.
I was teeing off the 14th hole at St. Andrew’s when suddenly, my caddy was struck by a bolt of lightning. Unfortunately, the lad lost the one redeeming characteristic of his class: the control of his bowels.
...and then my yacht ran out of gas.
Soaking in the thermal spings near Reykjavik is supposed to be relaxing. Not when you’re fighting a nasty bout of the shingles!
Browsing the Gucci boutiques at St. Maarten proved to be quite trying on both my patience and my moneypurse.
I was sunbathing off the coast of Grand Cayman when I got a hankering for a raspberry-lime rickey. To my chagrin, the four capable cabana boys demonstrated to me the actual meaning of “rickey” in the native tongue.