The Real OC

There was a fire in a garbage can towards the center of the penthouse. A half dozen puggles were lapping up ice cream that was melting out of giant tubs next to the Italian silk curtains. Broken beer bottles, crushed fritos and more than a few wonderbras littered the floor between unconscious strippers. As the smell of pepperoni sticks and Tag Body Spray seeped into the walls, Jason cleaned the dried vomit off of his poorly-grown beard, sat up the leopard-print bicycle he had crashed into the grand piano and said aloud, "this is the best birthday ever."