11:38 PM: I pull into the parking lot of the Taco Bell/KFC on Lincoln and Manchester, turn on my tape recorder and approach the drive-thru intercom:

INTERCOM: Good evening. Welcome to Taco Bell KFC. May I take your order?

ME: Yes, I’d like a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy.

INTERCOM: OK, that’s a Cheesy Bean and Rice Burrito, a Crunchwrap Supreme, some Homestyle Biscuits and a small Mashed Potatoes & Gravy. Will that be all?

ME: Actually, there is one more thing. . . I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: I’m sorry, was that a quesadilla?

ME: No, I said I watch QVC.

INTERCOM: Uh huh. Please pull forward.

ME: No, you don’t get it. I’m not the kind of guy you’d normally think would watch a shopping channel. I have a full-time job and a pretty decent sense of style. Of course, I’m not saying that all people who watch QVC are unemployed and lack taste, although it’s certainly true for most.

INTERCOM: Sir, please pull forward.

ME: You know what’s even worse? I’ve actually purchased things that I’ve seen on TV.

INTERCOM: *sigh* Hey, do you want this food or not?

ME: I even have those Space Bags. You know the ones that you stick stuff in and suck out the air with a vacuum cleaner? They’re sitting in my closet. I’ve actually used them. I also have one of those mops that vacuums up the water for you. Doesn’t work that well.

A horn honks behind me.

INTERCOM: Dude, just get out of here!

ME: Anyhow, my latest purchase was this thing called a Toss ‘N’ Chop. Basically, it’s a pair of scissors with two sets of blades. To make chopped salad, you simply stick the device into a bowl of lettuce and whatnot and squeeze away. The handle is spring-loaded, so little effort is required.

The horn continues to honk, followed by several other horns.

INTERCOM: Look, I’m not allowed to leave the restaurant after 11. But if I could, I would come out there and shove your Chalupa so far up your nose, your brain would have sour cream on it.

ME: I didn’t order a Chalupa.

INTERCOM: PULL THE FUCK FORWARD!

ME: In a minute. See, the problem is. I’ve had this Toss ‘N’ Chop since Christmas and I’ve never used it once. Not even once. I mean, you’d think that in that much time, I might have taken it out to see how it works. But no, it just sits in my drawer untouched. Honestly, I don’t even like chopped salad.

I glance in my rearview mirror and see three guys wearing baseball caps approaching my vehicle.

INTERCOM: I don’t get paid enough for this.

ME: You know what else is strange? I don’t even know what QVC stands for. I mean, HSN is easy: Home Shopping Network. But QVC? Not a clue.

A guy wearing a baseball cap leans into my window.

GUY: Hey, man, do we have a problem here?

ME: Several. But I’m working them out.

GUY: Dude, I’m fucking famished. Why don’t you go work it out at Mickey D’s or somethin’?

ME: Mickey D’s?

GUY: McDonald’s, man!

ME: You call McDonald’s Mickey D’s?

GUY: Everyone does!

ME: I don’t.

The guy reaches in and grabs me by the throat.

GUY: Look, I’m trying to be nice about this. Me and my buddies here want some fucking tacos.

ME: Ack.

GUY: Now, let’s try this again. When I let go, all you gotta do is drive the fuck away. You got that?

I nod as best as I can with a hand squeezing my voicebox.

GUY: Good. OK, I’m gonna let go now.

Face turning blue, I nod again. His hand finally releases my throat and I gasp for air.

ME (panting): OK. . . Can I at least get my food?

GUY: That’s not part of the deal, man.

ME: C’mon, not even a bean burrito?

GUY: Dude, you’re pushing it.

ME: Hm. . .

I look at him and his ears are totally red.

GUY: Just get the fuck out of here, dude!

ME: OK, OK, I’m going. But before I do, can I just ask you one quick question?

GUY: *sigh* What?!

ME: Have you ever watched QVC?

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in my car with beans, rice and cheese smeared all over the dashboard, mashed potatoes and gravy in my hair and a Chalupa shoved halfway up my left nostril. As you can imagine, I wasn’t happy. How many times do I have to tell that asshole I didn’t order a fucking Chalupa?

Walking into someone’s backyard, sitting down next to the chain-link fence. Petunia, a four-year-old Doberman Pincher, slowly approaches from the other side. She’s grinning from ear to ear.

SMIVEY: I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna put it out there… I…Okay, I like fruity soap. There, I said it.

PETUNIA: grrrrrrrrrrrr GRRRRRRRR

SMIVEY: Hey, don’t be passing judgment on me. A guy can maintain his masculinity and still enjoy a nice cucumber/melon shower gel.

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE GRRRRRRR ROFE ROFE [RUFF!] ROFE! ROFE!

SMIVEY: Oh, I see. Just because I’m a man, I’m supposed to torture myself with regular soap? Fuck that.

PETUNIA: GRRRRR ROFE GRRRR ROFE-ROFE ROFE!

SMIVEY: Yeah, what do you know? You lick your own balls, for godsakes!

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE-ROFE! ROFE!

SMIVEY: Yeah? No wonder you’re such a bitch. Bite me.

Petunia does her best to fulfill my wishes. She forces her snout through the chain-link fence and gets within centimeters of digging one of her fangs into my hand. I stand up and stare her down. She jumps at the fence, trying to scale it, barking away.

PETUNIA: ROFE! ROFE! ROFE-ROFE ROFE! ROFE-ROFE! ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE! ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE-ROFE!

SMIVEY: I AMMMM A HETEROSEXUAL MALE, AND I SMELLLL LIKE CUCUMBER AND MELONNNNNNNN!

This is around when the police arrived. They drew their guns and told me to keep my hands in the air. In hindsight, 3:30 am was probably not the best time for this particular confessional.

Walking into my favorite country-style restaurant, sitting down in a booth, turning to speak through the wicker partition.

Smivey: “I like musicals.”

Woman: “Excuse me?”

Smivey: “I’m a heterosexual man, and I like musicals.”

Woman: “That’s nice. Have a good day.”

Smivey: “I’m not talking about that pussy shit by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Or that hack work by Baz Luhrmann. I mean the good stuff.”

Woman: “Uh huh.”

Man: What’s wrong, babe?”

Woman: “I don’t know. This guy won’t stop talking about show tunes.”

Man: “Hey, buddy! Shut up, over there.”

Smivey: “West Side Story. Now, that’s a classic. Great choreography. Brilliant songs. Good storyline…”

Woman: “He’s still talking. Make him stop, Brad.”

Man: “Dude, knock it off.”

Smivey: “You know what my favorite is? My Fair Lady. Based on George Bernard Shaw’s play Pygmalion, this jewel has it all…”

Woman: “Brad, switch seats with me.”

Man: “Motherfucker. I’m gonna kick that fruit’s ass!”

Smivey: “With such hits as Get Me To The Church On Time, The Rain In Spain, and of course, Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.”

A large man, wearing a shirt two sizes too small for him, approaches me from the booth next door. And, of course, I begin to sing.

Smivey: “All I want is a room somewhere/ Far away from the cold night air/ With one enormous chair/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverly…”

Man: Dude, are you fuckin’ mental?

Smivey: “Lots of chocolate for me to eat/ Lots of coal makin’ lots of heat…”

He grabs me by the shirt and yanks me up out of the booth.

Man: “For the last fuckin’ time. Shut the fuck up or I’m gonna punch yer goddam lights out!”

Smivey: “Warm face, warm hands, warm feet/ Oh, wouldn’t it be loverlyyy–!”

That’s all I remember. I woke up about thirty minutes later, strapped to a gurney, with an I.V. in my arm. For three days after that, the only thing I could smell was dried blood. I don’t know why I keep doing these confessionals.