A MAN sits there, sobbing, drinking from a brown paper bag, pathetically alone. Plucky commercial music plays as a plucky commercial VOICE speaks.
VOICE: (voice-over) Has this ever happened to you?
MAN: I can’t believe I’ve lost my job, the bank is foreclosing on our home, and our sun is only days away from collapsing into a blackhole and consuming all life as we know it! How am I supposed to explain this to my wife?
WOMAN: Honey, is this a bad time?
MAN: Yes, actually, it kind of is.
WOMAN: Perfect. Because… well… I don’t know how to say this…
MAN: Oh, no…
WOMAN: But… I’m not really your wife.
MAN: (shattered) Oh, my–! (puzzles this) Wait a minute… What do you mean you’re not really my wife?
WOMAN: (over-dramatic) So, you’ve finally uncovered my secret!
MAN: You’re pulling my leg.
WOMAN: (really selling it) It’s true, all of it! My real name is Debroannah Neener-Neener-Neener, and I’m one of several FBI agents tasked with monitoring you for the last fifteen years.
MAN: But we have three children together.
WOMAN: Agents Brisbee, Torquewrench, and Baby Oliver.
MAN: This is ridiculous.
A phone RINGS, Man answers.
CALLER: (on phone) Bradthony, your brother is in the hospital. He was brutally beaten with a five-pound chihuahua named Rufus.
MAN: A five-pound chihuahua named Rufus? Is he okay?
CALLER: (on phone) He’s fine. But your brother’s not going to make it.
MAN: How can this day possibly get any worse for me specifically?
CALLER: (on phone) Oh. Well. I’m also Debroannah’s real husband, Craig.
MAN: I’m sorry?
CALLER: (on phone) Thank you. But we’re working through it. You never realize how important a healthy work-life balance is for a marriage until it’s too late, ya know?
MAN: Yes, Craig… I do know.
VOICE: (voice-over) When the world gets you down, turn to Brown Bag Liquor. Brown Bag Liquor, because sometimes all you’re looking for is an excuse. Now serving the Inland Empire and one guy named David who drives all the way out from Anaheim for some conspicuous reason or another.