I'll stumble home via a prepaid cab mumbling "What the fuck's a schmatta???" to the Iranian taxi driver, and Brigitte will be pissed off at me for acting like a jerk and disappearing from the hotel just when the arm-dances begin and coming back, pie-eyed and slurring "You mean it's still happening? Did they get married yet?"
And the talk of the town is going to be how surly and brutish I managed to be when someone asked me to "schmance."
Oh yeah. Ohhhhhhh, yeah. It'll happen, sure as there is rain in Tegucicalpa, all 10 centimeters per year, it will go JUST as I am predicting now.
What does faking a heart attack feel like? No, really? Do I clutch my chest or clutch my left arm? Do I topple like a Redwood or just ooze to the ground, panting? What do I say when the ER doc pronounces me fit and drunk as a fiddle, and that I can please go home?
HELP ME PEOPLE GODDAMNIT, HELP ME. I'M DYIN' HERE.