Jack Kukoda

Now that I have your attention, there’s something I’d like to tell you: I just shat out a Faberge Egg. For real.

To tell you the truth, I’m kind of worried. I mean, I’ve gotten blackout drunk before and done some pretty weird shit, but I’ve never had a priceless antique from the Romanov Dynasty show up in my stool. Were any of you hanging out with me last night? I must have drank more than I thought because I can’t remember anything. What did we do? Where did we go? Did anyone see me eat a Faberge Egg? Please, somebody help me out.

Here’s as much as I can tell you. I woke up this morning in my apartment from the torso up. The rest of me was sticking out into the hallway. I’m going to hazard a guess that last night, I got as far as putting the key in the door, then passed out. Also, when I woke up, my mouth tasted like sawdust. What?!

This came out of my ass.

How did I get my hands on a Faberge Egg? Where would I have even found one? And why did I eat it? At least, I’m hoping I ate it. Since the Egg was in pristine condition when it came out, I can’t rule out the possibility that I actually shoved the Egg up my ass at some point in the night. I prefer to think that it just didn’t digest well, though, like peanuts.

Oh man, if you guys know what happened, please tell me. I’m also slightly worried that whomever the Egg belongs to is going to want it back. And they could be foreigners. I don’t want to fuck with Interpol, the law enforcement agency, not the NYU students. Although, I hear those guys are pretty tough, too. All right, that’s all. I’m going to stay in for the rest of the day and make a list of ways to turn my life around. I can’t keep having stuff like this happen to me.