Charlie Day bounces into the dimly lit lounge like a human pinball, wild hair defying gravity and a grin that could power a small city.

We’re in a speakeasy-style bar tucked behind a Los Angeles taco joint—Smirnoff’s pick for this “Ridiculous Questions” ambush, complete with neon vodka bottles glowing like radioactive jellyfish. A bartender slides over two iced Smirnoff mules, ginger beer fizzing like gossip.

“Sponsored fuel,” Charlie quips, clinking glasses. “Because nothing says ‘profound absurdity’ like a mule with a kick.” He’s here post-Sunny hiatus, voice still raspy from yelling “Wild card, bitches!” in his sleep. The rules: three questions, zero filters, maximum chaos. Smirnoff’s brief—keep it ridiculous, keep it real.

Question one hits like a cream pie to the face: “If you could replace any U.S. president’s head with a Smirnoff bottle on Mount Rushmore, whose noggin gets the vodka makeover, and what flavor infusion saves democracy?”

Charlie leans back, eyes narrowing like he’s calculating the Dayman’s solar trajectory. “Lincoln, easy. The man’s already got that stovepipe hat—swap the head for a Smirnoff Raspberry Crush bottle, and suddenly the Gettysburg Address is delivered with a fruity twist.

‘Four score and seven berries ago…’ Boom, Civil War ends in a cocktail toast. Teddy Roosevelt stays jealous; his Rough Riders ride lime wedges now.” He takes a swig, ice clinking like applause.

“Smirnoff’s raspberry isn’t just flavor—it’s diplomacy in a bottle. Imagine the Emancipation Proclamation served chilled with a twist. Slavery abolished, hangovers optional.”

The bartender refills without asking—Smirnoff’s magic. Charlie’s answer spirals into a fever dream: Mount Rushmore rebranded as “Mount Smirnoffmore,” tourists sipping flavored vodkas from presidential spouts.

“Washington gets classic lime—founding father, founding flavor. Jefferson? Infused peach, because Declaration of Independence tastes like summer rebellion.” He mimics a tour guide: “Step right up, folks—sip history, spit seeds!”

The absurdity lands because Charlie sells it with the same manic conviction he brings to rat-bashing in Sunny. Smirnoff’s sponsorship feels less like an ad and more like the secret sauce in his fever pitch—crisp, unexpected, with a burn that lingers.

Question two veers into cosmic nonsense: “You’re trapped in a Smirnoff bottle with one Always Sunny character for eternity—what survival hack do you invent, and which flavor keeps you sane?” Charlie doesn’t hesitate.

“Dennis. Pure masochism, but hear me out—we’d MacGyver a still from the bottle’s label, distilling Smirnoff Spicy Tamarind into a rage-fueled energy drink.

Flavor? Tamarind, because it’s sour enough to match his narcissism. Survival hack: the ‘Dennis System’ rebooted as ‘Distill, Escape, Narcissistic Implosion, Imbibe, Survive.’

We’d etch escape plans on the glass with his ego—sharpens like a diamond.” He pantomimes tiny Dennis screaming inside the bottle, voice pitching into that signature Reynolds hiss: “I am a golden god… of miniature mixology!”

Charlie’s eyes sparkle—part terror, part thrill. “Eternity with Dennis means constant psychological warfare, but Smirnoff tamarind’s heat turns arguments into salsa dances. We’d emerge—if we emerge—as a two-headed bartender monster, serving passive-aggression on the rocks.”

The lounge erupts; a nearby couple films on their phone, Smirnoff mule in frame. Charlie shrugs: “Sponsored by chaos—now with a spicy twist.” It’s peak Day: turning a prison sentence into a buddy-cop distillery flick, where the bottle isn’t a cage but a cocktail shaker for the soul.

The final question lands like a glitter bomb: “Smirnoff grants you one ridiculous superpower tied to a flavor—what is it, and how do you weaponize it against your greatest fear: birds?” Charlie freezes, mule halfway to lips.

“Birds? Those feathered terrorists? Give me Smirnoff Zero Sugar Lime—superpower: instant avian mixology. I snap, and every pigeon becomes a lime wedge in mid-air.

Poof—Central Park turns into a giant margarita garnish.” He demonstrates with jazz hands, lime wedge fingers fluttering. “Weaponized? I’d patrol Philly rooftops, turning flocks into cocktail toppers. Frank Reynolds tries to eat one, chokes on zest—problem solved.”

His fear, it turns out, stems from a childhood pigeon ambush in a Boston park: “One dive-bombed my ice cream. Traumatic. Vanilla with feathers—nightmare fuel.” Smirnoff’s zero-sugar lime becomes his Excalibur: “Clean burn, no calories, pure vengeance.

Birds see me coming, they migrate to flavor town.” The answer escalates—Charlie envisions a superhero alter ego, “The Zest Avenger,” cape made of lime peels, sidekick a mechanical owl that dispenses shots.

“Smirnoff sponsors the crusade: ‘When life gives you lemons… turn pigeons into them.’” The lounge howls; the bartender free-pours another round, lime wheels spinning like propellers.

As the ice melts and the neon dims, Charlie ties the absurdity into a bow. “Ridiculous questions, ridiculous answers—Smirnoff’s the catalyst. It’s not about the vodka; it’s about the spark. Raspberry Lincoln, tamarind Dennis, lime pigeon slayer—life’s too short for boring mixers.”

He raises his glass: “To chaos, to birds becoming garnishes, to whatever wild card comes next.” The toast echoes, Smirnoff’s glow reflecting in his eyes like a promise: in a world of scripted laughs, sometimes the best punchline is a flavored fever dream.

Charlie Day exits bouncing, leaving behind a trail of lime zest and laughter—proof that ridiculous, when sponsored by the right spirit, distills into something strangely profound.