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I was waiting by the side of the stage for my cue when Alfonso Ribeiro sidled up beside me.

“You like sex?” he asked matter-of-factly.

“Um. I guess,” I answered.

“Yeah, me too. Mmmmmm … I musta banged over a thousand chicks,” he said, dreamily.

Whether it was true or not, the thought of Carlton laying pipe made me uncomfortable—and nauseated.

Alfonso ended up winning Celebrity Duets and received the grand prize of nothing. The show was canceled soon after, and even though I’m glad I did it, I’m still bothered that I was the first one kicked off. I know I could’ve done better with the right songs, but that’s the way it is sometimes.

The only saving grace was that the week after I was eliminated, the ratings for Celebrity Duets fell 50 percent and got worse from there.

Suck on those lemons, Simon.

CHAPTER 43

Hill Street Blues

A few months after my mistimed haunting of Eli Roth, he forgave me and invited me to a party celebrating both his thirty-fourth birthday and the DVD release of Hostel. It was a great Hollywood bash, except for when I told Jack Black I was a huge Tenacious D fan and he glared at me as if I’d just eaten Kyle Gass and walked away. I didn’t mind; CJ had been big-leagued by far bigger stars than JB.

I spent the night hanging out with the Roth family and drinking a few Crowns, nothing too crazy. The party was wrapping up and as I was getting ready to split, a fan asked me to have a shot with him.

“Come on, Chris! I watch you every Monday night! [I hadn’t been on Raw in eight months.] I paid seventy-five dollars for this tequila shot and I want you to drink it with me!”

Never one to turn down a free drinkski, I tipped it back, thanked the guy (in retrospect I should’ve slapped him), and hopped in my car to drive back to my apartment in Burbank.

I’d just moved to California and still wasn’t exactly sure where I was going. I was driving down the 101 and made a right onto Universal Drive, but then swerved back onto the freeway when I realized I’d turned off too early. Right then I got a text from Eli’s brother Gabe asking me if I’d made it home okay, and I began texting him back.

When I swerved again on the empty freeway due to my driving and texting (Oprah is right … that’s a no-no, kids), a pair of flashing red cherries appeared in my rearview mirror. My heart skipped like Sheffield and I pulled over on Lankershim (about five minutes from my place), as the officer slowly approached my car.

At Eli’s birthday party in Hollywood. After discussing how awesome his Cannibal Holocaust T-shirt was, I drank a shot of top-shelf tequila and left. Thirty minutes later I was arrested and spent the night in an L.A. jail.

After looking at my license and registration, he asked me if I’d been drinking. I told him I’d had a few drinks. That’s all he needed to hear and asked me to step out of the car.

“You were swerving all over the place and driving really slow. Plus your eyes are bloodshot. Are you sure you haven’t had more than a few drinks?”

Of course I hadn’t!

Or had I?

I sure had all the excuses in the world for my shoddy driving. I was going slow because I was lost. I was swerving because I made a wrong turn. I’ve always had a problem with my eyes being red and have to carry a small bottle of Bausch and Lomb Opcon-A (cheap plug) at all times so my eyes don’t look like Snoop Dogg’s in a smokehouse.

But the bottom line was I had been drinking all night, even though I didn’t feel drunk.

Famous last (call) words.

The cop asked me to take a bunch of field sobriety tests. I stood on one foot and counted to ten while touching my nose. I had to recite the alphabet, forwards and backwards—who the hell can say their ABCs backwards even when they’re sober?? Then I wavered a little while walking a straight line with my eyes closed, and that was the final straw.

“Sir, can you please step into the car.”

Now I was getting scared.

I slid into the backseat, and the cop asked me to take a breathalyzer. When I blew a 0.088 (which was over the legal limit of.08), it was bye-bye, baby, bye-bye, that was