Listen to me closely because I'm not going to repeat myself. The following will take place tomorrow. No exceptions.

I'll be on set from 06:30:00 through 22:02:05. We will rendezvous at El Chavo on Sunset 22:07:30. You’ll have a wine. I’ll have ten shots of Jaeger.

At 22:39:12, we will relocate 0.2 miles to Akbar for dancing. I move fast so you will need to keep up. If there's a chance the DJ will play song that calls for a Watusi or a Frug, I will decide for the both of us which dance step to sacrifice.

Without fail, my manager phones me at 23:07:33 to coax me back home. He doesn't know what's best for me, and he especially doesn't know what's best for this country. We will continue dancing. Not to worry. I'll be granted amnesty for my actions.

Hey! Concentrate on the situation on hand!

At 23:48:57, the bartender will attempt to cut me off after requesting a thirteenth Jack and Coke. I'll do whatever it takes to get him to comply to my order and refill my glass, whether it be threatening the life of his brother who runs the door or ripping apart the electrical cord of a lamp and attaching the live cables to his nipples. It'll work. Trust me, it always does.

After he breaks, we’ll secure three more rounds then call the job done and head over to Ye Rustic Inn. Fueled by a BAC of .12, I will commandeer a taxi, gun it to 120 MPH, launch it off the angled ramp of a flatbed truck, and land it onto the bar's roof at exactly 00:02:36. The fire escape will provide us with unmanned entry. Keep the engine running.

It'll be 00:03:07 when we enter the dining area, which I've officially dubbed "The Buffalo Wing Situation Room." In 4 minutes, 56 seconds, we'll be knee-deep in delicious spicy chicken wings. Or else.

"Or else what," you ask?

Or else I snap one of the bones into jagged shrapnel and plunge it deep into the tardy waiter's femoral artery. Clean shot, slow kill. I've done it before, I'll do it again. We shouldn't have a problem. STAY WITH ME!

After 17 Irish Car Bombs, we will then move to my apartment at 01:51:43 for sexual intercourse. I tend to hold onto the under carriage of 18-wheelers to get home, but the wide turns take too long. It's likely we'll hotwire a pair of Kawasaki motorbikes from the nearby dealer. 34 seconds, and we're gone.

Once inside my apartment, it takes 1 minute, 13 seconds for me to completely disrobe. I expect you to follow suit.

We will NOT be intertwined past 02:10:51! This is a direct order that, if ignored, will force me to relieve you of your duties and replace you with someone who has the best interests of this country in mind. By the way, every woman I’ve ever cared for has either been shot dead or tortured stupid, so don’t get clingy.

Hey, it's a dirty job. But when they need someone to take happy hour into his own hands, I get the call.