Where’s Waldo?

 (This was sent to me by a pilot’s wife the morning after Cinco De Mayo.) Ok, you’re a major airline pilot. You manage to make it home after a rowdy night of Tecate and tequila at the local bar. You dwell in a 3000 sq foot house loaded with coaches and beds. At what point do you say “f##k it, hardwood floors are lookin’ cozy right about now??” No blanket, no bedding, just balls deep Rambo on the kitchen floor. Thug life, baby. The Neffwaffe salutes you…..