Handler - Uganda Be Kidding Me

I woke up at 4:45 a.m. in Johannesburg, South Africa, in my bra, underwear, and eyeshades. My head was torqued to the right due to the length and width of the pillow I was resting it on, which had the same dimensions as a panty liner. The duvet accompanying this pillow was an inch or two wider and could have doubled as a buffet napkin. I hadnt traveled halfway around the world to dislocate my collarbone while sleeping. The idea was to go on safari; if I had wanted to go to camping, I would have driven four hours north of Los Angeles to Big Sur, taken some mushrooms, and sexually assaulted a tree.

I manually maneuvered my head forty-five degrees in the opposite direction to look over at my lesbian friend Shelly, who was sound asleep and fully clothed in a quasi-respectable pair of pajamas. Adults wearing pajamas are already hard to take seriously; its even harder to respect that person when shes a forty-five-year-old professional, and the pajamas in question have toy crop dusters silk screened all over them.

Our pickup time from the hotel wasnt until 9:15. I looked at the clock again and deduced that another Xanax would likely induce an eight-hour run of sleep, when really I only needed to kill four hours. My doctor had told me very specifically not to take more than four Xanax in two days; I had already taken seven and slept a total of twenty-five hours in a period of forty-eight. So I picked up a Xanax, bit it in half, and then popped both halves into my mouth, chasing them with a large sip of champagne that was on my nightstand from the previous evening.

My thoughts then meandered to the entire continent of Africa itself, and I whispered a question to myself, so as to not wake Shelly. When Kim Kardashian finally births Kanyes next black baby, wouldnt it be wonderful if they named the baby Africa with a k? Or better yet, Afrikash?

In my limited experience as an adolescent/immature adult, Ive found its always best to travel in even numbers, so there were six of us being flown into the bush. One was my cousin Molly, twenty-six. She is the younger, whiter version of Tyler Perrys Madea. Largeand in charge.

I remembered that Molly loved animals and wanted to become a zoologist before her parents convinced her to aim lower and work on a reality show. If youve ever heard a hippo entering a watering hole, then you know what it sounds like to hear Molly chuckle. Her birth name is Ulrike (pronounced OOL-reekie) because our mothers hail from Nazis, and in an effort to live a peaceful life alongside our Jewish brethren, she chose her middle nameMollyto use personally and at McDonalds. While everyone else refers to her as Molly, I call her by her birth name because I find Ulrike both appalling and embarrassing. Over the years, it has been shortened to Ricky or Rick the Dick. However, Rick the Dick has never caught on with others, and I constantly have to explain to people who know her why Im calling her Rick or Ricky. So Ive adapted to referring to her with either name only in intimate settings such as texts or in a whirlpool.

Accompanying us would be my newly divorced sister Simone (I facilitated it). She resisted coming because she and her three children were moving into a newer, better house, and the timing couldnt have been worse. I thought it best to bulldoze right over her plans by hiring movers and getting her a plane ticket, then telling her it was nonrefundable and that Id be out twenty-five thousand dollars if she didnt come. Simone often refers to me as a relationship wrecker.