They told me it was just another “random home invasion.” Sure. Just like how my Hawaiian shorts are “business casual.”
One minute, I’m minding my own business. The next, I’m standing in the living room in my boxers, clutching a hammer like it’s a remote control. Reporters flashing cameras, neighbors peeking through blinds, and the only question that matters echoing through the air:
“Where’s Grandma Vodka?”
Some say she was in D.C., sipping Chardonnay and rearranging metaphors. Others swear she was upstairs, taking a Botox nap. But me? I think she was exactly where she always is—three martinis deep, rewriting history with a Sharpie.
So yeah, go ahead. Call it a break-in. Call it political theater. Call it whatever makes you sleep better. But I’ll keep asking the only question that cuts through the spin:
Where’s Grandma Vodka?