I was hiking the Appalachian trail and my GPS went, like, totally batshit.
I was on a double secret intelligence mission, investigating the South American cocaine trade, and tracked the source of the problem to the ass cheeks of an Argentinian stripper.
Fine, I was planning on starring in a local production of Evita and went to Buenos Aires to research the role.
Look, you just can't get good Gaucho steak in the states, ok?
I was taking tango lessons so I could take my wife dancing for her birthday. It was going to be a surprise, so thanks for screwing THAT up.
I was on a trade mission, trading American dollars for Argentinian blow jobs.
I was on a boat, cruising the Argentinian coastline. Alone. Totally alone. Completely and totally alone. I resent any and all implications that I was not totally alone.
I categorically deny that I was visiting the love child I fathered with an Argentinian supermodel. They don't even have Father's Day in Argentina, so there!
At least I wasn't in a Minneapolis airport bathroom.
John Edwards, people. John Edwards.
You remember how President Bush used to disappear to his ranch in Crawford? Well, I was practicing for when I became president and was checking out ranch property in Buenos Aires.
It was President Obama's fault. He forced that stimulus package on me so I went to get my package stimulated.
Hey, I'll tell you the same thing I told my wife: none of your fuckin' beeswax.