Of course, just like every story you've seen on VH1's Behind The Music, success lasts only so long.

Turns out I can't throw small projectiles with any accuracy or beat up bad guys, and Lenny slept through every call on our one-buttoned-red-phone-direct-line-to-the-Commissioner phone. So playing to what I figured were our strengths, we opened a detective agency. I was the wise-cracking secretary who did all the work and he was the lowlife P.I. who just sat with his wheels up in his office downing a fifth of rye.

So I can't solve crimes either, and it probably didn't help that I dressed as a woman. I just didn't figure the world was ready for a male secretary is all. Anyway, two failed business attempts later (Major League Baseball Player and Jedi Knight), I found myself defaulting on some of those business loans.

This is what happens when you have a duck for an accountant. That's two strikes for Laszlow...I swear, two more stikes and I'm gonna have to start beginning to consider thinking about the possibility that maybe I shouldn't be listening to him anymore. Anyways, completely broke, I did what any other red-blooded American would do.

That's right, I became an Old West Outlaw, and made a plan to rob the bank. It didn't occur to me that the bank wouldn't actually have any money since I had borrowed it all and blown it on lottery tickets and slurpees. At any rate, I never even got to rob the bank since I ran into these guys.

Who does he think is, making fun of my clothes when he's not even wearing a shirt? That's what I wanted to know. So I asked them that. With my fists. Which were full of dollars. After beating them good, bad, and ugly, I rode off into the sun to grow more stubble while drifting the high plains.

Alright, fine. I stood there dumbly, thinking that if I didn't move, they wouldn't be able to see me. My plan backfired and they beat me into a pulp for ignoring their witticisms.

Just what I needed: another reason for people to call me "assface". Probably should've either loaded my gun or stopped squinting long enough to dodge a punch. Or something. They finished and headed off to a Dave Matthews concert, leaving me for dead. Well, time-travelling robot friend not to be found, I decided I'd shave off the three weeks worth of beard I'd managed to grow in the past two hours and see if I couldn't win back my lady love, Senora Whateverhernamewas of Toboso.

I've been told my biggest mistake here was song choice, but I just really like "Baby Got Back". Guess I should have played "Superfreak". Oh, I think I forgot to mention that I sold my car and bought a horse. I mean, you try to look like an Outlaw while driving a Honda. Shelving that particular torch, I decided to solve our country's rampant illegal alien problem by marrying one and making her legal.

Turns out our problem wasn't with Space Martians From Outerpace, but I still feel like I did my part. Our joy, however, didn't last and we divorced on grounds of "irreconcilable differences." Those differences mostly being that she seemed to think that Billy Crudup is more attractive than me. Pff, whatever. Let's have a side-by-side comparison.
  
Damn it, I knew I should have stopped eating that cake while I was posing for that picture. But no, the artist said he could paint around it, and I dumbly believed him. Well, Billy Crudup has won this round. The last laugh is mine, however, as in accordance with the divorce settlement, my Space Martian-Wife From Outerspace now owns half of my debt.