That really pissed him off, with moves like

That really pissed him off, with moves like a cat, George Foreman jumped to his feet, grabbed the closest Swiffer Duster and proceeded to

sniff the swiff and pass it to the Hoff. The Hoff packed it and lit up. David Hasselhoff was a Swiffer Duster junkie. He had long had problem with cleaning products, starting with

and the ineffable flavor they added to ordinary meals. A little 401 did wonders for enhciladas! Hoff was shining a toilet with pride when inspiration struck him: a line of frozen

marshmallows. Gourmet, frozen, multi-hued frozen marshmallows. Stunned by the genius of the idea, Hoff paused in his toilet shining and grinned. Why had no one else

thought of it? In a moment of piss-poor judgment, Hoff scoffed at those other people, who were simply not as smart as him! He slipped and hit his head on the shiny porcelain base.

"Oh shit," Hoff mumbled, just before he lost consciousness. He awoke some time later, still on the sticky pee-stained floor. He couldn't remember anything that had happened. "What

happened?", Hoff stammered as he slowly regained conciousness and began to inspect his surroundings. He was on a tower or some sort. Wait, is this ... Paris? He must be

delusional.Slowly,his blurred vision became clearer.No,not Paris.Fake Paris,Nevada.How the hell did he get to Vegas?And,more importantly,why was he naked except for his socks?

He was surrounded by cats who were watching him. Where was his prozac when he needed it? What the hell was he doing here? So many questions, no answers. The cats sniffed his socks.