Let me tell you an ugly little secret about myself, kids.

Even if the house was free.

Even if it was a free fucking mansion, a gorgeous free fucking mansion that came complete with a surly Clive Owen, naked and eager and permanently ensconced on the property for my boning pleasure.

And there was a Taco Bell and a Starbucks installed in the kitchen at my 24 hour beck and call.

Oh, and Jon Stewart was there to read me the news and make me belly laugh — okay, and to throw me the occasional fingerbang, as well.

And a sneering, callous James Spader, circa 1986, was there as my full-time masseur, shitkicker, and spankmeister.

Even it was a free motherfucking 37 bedroom Mid-Century Modern mansion filled with the original paintings of Joan Miro and Modigliani themselves.

And Valley of the Dolls played on a neverending loop every minute of every day on a huge, HI-DEF, flatscreen tv hanging on the wall above my whirlpool bathtub, in which Clivey, Jonny, Jimmy, and I soak together in scalding hot bubbles for hours at a time.

And every afternoon Tom Jones serenaded me from the pool house where hot, hung Filipino cabana boys lived solely to serve me Bloody Mary’s and cherry cheesecake — a mansion just for me, with all those components perpetually provided.

Even then…

I still could not live on La Tuna Canyon Road in a city named “La Tuna Canyon, California.”

No way, no how. Every time I spoke my address out loud, I would snicker and smirk for the rest of my goddamned days.

That’s not the name of a city, for chrissake — it’s the punchline of a dirty joke.