My preceding 32 years (since graduating from high school) have been spent in the grand adventure of circumnavigating the globe in an endless and oftentimes fruitless quest for James Bond type intrigue. Well, let me say that in all actuality, I’ve never traveled outside the borders of North America. OK, to be honest, I’ve only visited or driven through 21 states and once partook of a strange breakfast consisting of meatloaf (I think) and fried eggs in London, Ontario, while traversing the shortest route between Point A (Niagara Falls) and Point B (Port Huron).

Even so, these limited excursions have left me with endless fodder for countless tales of suspense and mystery (most often told late at night in the company of drunken strangers). I have found, though, the perplexing situations one would equate with a classic Sherlock Holmes novel have eluded me on my life’s journey, only to be replaced with the ridiculously unbelievable predicaments we’ve come to anticipate when viewing a classic Peter Sellers as Inspector Clouseau movie scene.

The most baffling and reoccurring instance of cryptic hilarity — as predictable as the sunrise, the swallows return to Capistrano, or yet another horribly-acted Nicholas Cage film — is as follows: