No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get any of the red carpets changed to black. Which, I mean, unacceptable. Billy Zane got mad when he found out I was only letting him almost-win, and then he got super mad when I wouldn’t hire him to play my chauffeur in The Mustachables 9: Slick Daddy’s Revenge. And JCVD and Razor Frank did not get along. JCVD was a toilet-paper-under guy and Razor Frank was strictly toilet-paper-over. I mean, unforgivable.

JCVD is a tough guy and all, but they don’t call him Razor Frank for nothing. Meaning he will cut your punk face with a razor blade if he doesn’t like the way you hang your TP. I felt so bad for JCVD I gave him the chauffeur part.

You know that eye patch he wore in the film? Yeah, that wasn’t done for dramatic effect. Jean-Claude Van Damme literally has no right eyeball anymore.

So yeah, just like with Airwolf, I grew up watching these guys. I thought they were all badasses. All right, I never really liked Stephen Dorff, but everyone else—badasses.

I mean, Dolph Lundgren alone. We’re talking He-Man in Masters of the Universe. We’re talking Drago in Rocky IV. We’re talking the original Punisher of motion picture cinema. The man’s got a jaw almost as square as mine. He’s six feet five inches tall, so, you know, not as tall as me, but still pretty damn tall. And I don’t know what kind of mousse he uses on his hair—fine, I asked, it’s L’Oréal Studio Line with its patented Multi-Vitamin Formula for Protection and Shine—but those blond spikes are like indestructible nails of gold-plated solid gold.

Then, one day, we’re all hanging out at my mega-mansion, eating Papa John’s, pounding Pabst, and the dude farts.

Now, that, in and of itself, is cool, right? It’s like, “Whoa, mega action icon Dolph Lundgren just farted in my house on my jet-black Corinthian-leather sectional sofa”—like, what a fucking honor, you know?

And I’m expecting like this awesome riiiiiip. Like a ragged, raging chainsaw of a fart that revs up and roars, leaving a path of devastation and destruction in its wake. Like, I’m ready to be impressed, man.

But guess what?

This guy lets out the weakest, whiniest, most pathetic fart I’ve heard in my life. In my life!!! It’s this high-pitched, squeaky, mousy little paw just scratching at the screen door, pleading to be let in for a saucer of milk at suppertime.

The other guys there, Terry Crews and Jesse Ventura and Antonio Banderas and Kelsey Grammer, they all give each other this knowing look. Like, Oh—it’s one of Dolph’s embarrassing weak-ass farts again.

Then I look at Dolph, and he kind of shrugs and in his Swedish accent he goes, “Sorry, my bad.”