This morning, upon waking, I found myself transformed in my bed into a wanker with a really nasty katzenjammer.  But my reality isn’t quite as Kafkaesque as it may sound: Last night, before the big Fourth of July celebration, Karl “The Keester-Kissing Kraut” and I knocked back a few at a kegger in Kalamazoo — and, apparently, we knocked back a few too many.

     Holy kreplach, I haven’t had this ferocious of a hangover since Clinton was in the White House.  (Now, that guy knew how to throw a party.)

     While I fix myself a pot of coffee, I think I’ll tell you a little story about Karl.  And you might want to go wake the kiddies — this should be fun for the whole family . . . the little munchkins are bound to learn a thing or two from this crazy fucker:

Some schmuck once sent an anonymous letter complaining that Karl accosted his daughter at a nude beach and said she was a “knockout” who had the “cutest little knish” he’d ever seen — and then Karl allegedly proceeded to practice all the positions in the Kama Sutra on her.  And “Anonymous” implied that this kaleidoscopic klusturfuk of kink was somewhat less than kosher.

     But the letter writer made the fatal mistake of reflexively writing his return address on the envelope, so Karl — a staunch and steadfast member of the Federation of United Kamikaze Dissidents against Anonymous Tripe (FUKDAT) — in his all-too-typical knee-jerk fashion, grabbed his Kalashnikov and got all keyed up to go kill this kooky cracker . . . to put the kibosh on any future kibitzing from this crazy kludge.

     When Karl got to the wacko’s house, he kicked in the front door and stormed up the stairs.  But when he eventually found the freak’s bedroom door, he somehow had the presence of mind to take a keek through the keyhole, and he noticed that the sicko pervert was doing “some kind of kundalini yoga or somethin’,” naked, and the weirdo kept kvetching about how his kleptomaniacal housekeeper keeps pilfering his knickknacks and kickshaws, and then he started kvelling about how many kumquats he could cram up his keester.

     And once Karl heard this sexual deviant bragging about how much fruit he could stuff up his butt, his presence of mind didn’t last long.  In the time it takes the average idiot to figure out the idiotic idiocy of a Zen koan, he kicked the door down and fired a few warning shots into the monkeyfucker’s priceless Ming vases — kapow, kaboom, kablooey!  Within seconds, the whole kit and kaboodle lay in shards of porcelain on the candy ass’s kitschy shag carpet.

     The looney sprang to his feet, and a brief kerfuffle ensued: The pantywaist klumsily tried bludgeoning Karl with his kielbasa, but Karl kicked the cocksucker in the kishkes and KO’d him by klopping him on the cabeza with the butt of his Kalashnikov.

     But the fruitcake quickly regained consciousness, and he again lunged at Karl.  This time, however, Karl used his Wu-Tang–style kung fu: A kick to the scrot — a knee to the throat . . . and that’s all she wrote.

As it turned out, however, the anonymous letter writer didn’t even have a daughter.  And he had no idea what he was doing when he wrote the aforementioned letter — since the last time he vacationed in New Guinea, he had contracted kuru from having eaten a few too many human brains.

     But it’s rather telling how everyone just assumed there was at least a kernel of truth to what Anonymous was saying.  After all, Karl “The Kowtowing Kraut” is a bit of a sexual deviant himself.  Hell, I wish I had a nickel for every time he’s spoken the words: “How was I supposed to know she was only six?”