Let me tell you a little story about Johnny Depp.

Last summer I got wind of a toga party that Rue McClanahan was throwing at her mansion. After a few well-placed reejers at the post-office, I managed to get my mitts on Hank Williams Jr.'s invitation and broke out my best Bocephus disguise.

When I arrived, the joint was packed wall-to-wall with celebs, from Mia Hamm to The Smothers Brothers. Better yet, there was an ample supply of Pringles and like a thousand cases of Busch Lite. I knew right away that I wouldn't be leaving without getting both my drunk on and my nuts off.

So, I chugged like 10 cans of Busch Lite and mowed the hell down on at least eight cans of Pringles. But, like all good things, good beer and good chips is a recipe for giving me the squirts, so I headed to the W/C.

I must've been wasted, because I forgot to knock. And what should I find in the bathroom but Edward Scissorhands himself, Johnny Depp, in a pancake-batter-filled bathtub with Susan Lucci. Lucci was doing herself with the business end of a pickled pig's foot while she gave Depp a "Howard Johnson" with a handful of snot.

Despite the ten-foot boner that immediately took up residence in my drawers, I apologized and turned to leave the love-birds alone. But Johnny called to me.

"Hank, there's enough of me to go around. Get your sweet ass back here."

"But I've got a violent bout of diarrhea brewing downstairs," I replied.

"All the more reason," Lucci squealed.

With that, I stripped and hopped in the tub. In no time, we were covered in my Busch and Pringles-induced turd-juice and each working toward the first of what would be dozens of orgasms by the time the sun came up.

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