With so many different stories about what really happened on that fateful day, Navy Seals punching holes in the cone of silence, Hollywood fashioning its own drama, the president touting his role as if he himself had pulled the trigger, I think it’s time the truth finally came out.

I killed Osama bin Laden.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking: That Office spinoff with just Dwight is never going to work. And you may be right. But let me tell you how I, Anthony Sacramone, killed Osama bin Laden.

It was a dark and stormy night. Day. Night. It was Thursday. And snowing. In Pakistan. Raining. I never thought my services would be called upon. I was watching yet another episode of Hoarders, eating chocolate-covered Graham crackers doused in Nutella, when there was a knock on the door. The phone rang. I received an e-mail. A phone call.

“It’s for you,” said my wife. The queen of Spain. Dina Meyer. My wife. Kirsten Dunst.

I took the call. Because that’s the cut of my gib. And no one has cut his gib more times than I have, because I cannot shave worth a damn.

“Hello,” I screamed. Said. Sang, to the tune of Adele’s “Rumour Has It.”

“Anthoy Scaramona?”

“Yes,” I lied.

“This is the president of the United States. The secretary of state. The superintendent of schools. The guy who sold you your treadmill.”

“I know who it is.” I had no idea who it was.

“Your country needs you.”

“Things are that bad?”

“Worse. A vote was taken in Congress, and you have been stripped of your citizenship, because we never want to be in your debt. Your country is Latvia now. Latvia needs you.”

“I don’t want Latvia to need me. It never ends well. Remember the Kemeri National Park riots in ’09.”

“That was a failure in intelligence. Yours. You really aren’t very bright.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You can’t. This conversation is taking place in your head.”

“Not again.”

“Listen up: There is a car waiting for you outside. A van. A Big Wheel. It will take you to the airport. 7-Eleven. You will buy a Big Slurp and three cheese dogs. Sweater vests. You will then be lowered by jumper cable into Abbottandcostellobad, Pakistan. You will make your way into a heavily guarded compound marked ‘Heavily Guarded Compound. Osama bin Laden Not Here. Go Away Unless You Bring Pizza.’ You will ignore the second part. He is there. And you’re going to put a bullet right between his eyes. In his chest. In his general torso area.”

“Will you supply me with the necessary weapons and body armor?”

“No. We’re the federal government, not your mother. We will support you the rest of your life on the taxpayer’s dime in order to infantilize you and crush your soul, but we cannot afford to give every Tom Dick and Mary a gun. It’s un-Latvian.”

“What if I’m shot by one of his bodyguards before I can strangle the target with one of the sweater vests?”

“Then you suck. And we will announce to the world that you suck. If you can live with that, even though you’re dead, then you suck.”

“Do we need to come up with a secret code name to refer to the target?”

“We already have. Honey Boo Boo.”

“I don’t like that code name.”

“I don’t like Brazil nuts, but there you have it.”

“How will I get out of Pakistan?”

“Bus. Boat. Jet Skis. Futuristic teleportation gadget.”

“I don’t want to do any of this.”

“Good luck. I’m not allowed to say ‘Godspeed’ because of the separation of church and state. Plus, I’m not a hundred percent certain what it means. I think it may be German for ‘I have Helga’s shoes, so there is no need to buy her a second pair. So please tell her sister lest she worry and start drinking again.’ “

I had already hung up. In my mind. And before I could sing the Latvian Independence Day Anthem, “Es gribu ēst kūka, bet es nokārtot pīrāgs,” I was being dropped into Pakistani territory, with only a sweater vest, a handful of Brazil nuts, and $2,000 worth of bubble wrap.

The rest is a blur. A lot of running, screaming in foreign tongues, loud banging noises. I had wandered into a Chinese takeaway, and had accidentally stepped in an aluminum pot filled with lo mein.

“Osama bin Laden!” I yelled.

“He in Heavily Guarded Compound! He Not There! You Bring Pizza Now!”

It was just like Iraq. And Park Slope.

I quickly improvised a disguise. I would approach the compound dressed as Mr. Roper from Three’s Company, a ruse that proved extremely effective during the Grenada invasion.

In fact, I had barely knocked at the compound entrance, which was strangely outfitted with Hello Kitty stickers, when the personification of all that was evil, the World’s Most Wanted Man, answered. In footie pajamas.

“Oh, no. What has that Jack Tripper done now?” he asked.

And I was in. The sweater vest fit perfectly. He began preening before a mirror when I lodged the Brazil nuts in his trachea. He gasped and pounded his fist just below his sternum, trying to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

“You’re doing it wrong, idiot,” I taunted, and proceeded to show him the correct way. The nuts popped from his throat, flew into the air, and landed in each eye. The shock of everything suddenly going black when it was still day, which was evident from the old episodes of Yes Dear playing in the background, proved fatal. He was as dead as Jeffrey Jones’s career. I began encasing his six-foot-five-inch carcass in the bubble wrap when suddenly—

I was surrounded. Three large men with automatic weapons and those Russian caps with the goofy ear flaps peered down at me.

“You bring pizza?”

“No. I brought justice.” I had been working on a world-historical tagline for my inevitable book. Blog post. Haiku. I thought “I brought justice” resonated in a way that “I brought pizza” or “I brought salad” or “I brought my friend Kenneth” just didn’t.

“Screw justice. He owe us rents.”

“Hah?”

“Rents. Many rents. He rent this space. He no pay. Tell us go blow up Sears building, win big moneys in Paradise. Many women who never sexy sexy, so don’t know how to do good stuff. I tell him, ‘You one sick fathermother. You pay rents! And turn down stupid Yes Dear. Was never good show. Stupid show. Brother-in-law big freeloader. Old joke. Stupid show.’ “

This went on for roughly 45 minutes. I finally excused myself, telling my hosts that I was going to an ATM to get cash, but hitchhiked across the border into India. Once there, I was lost in India. Six months later I made my way back to Latvia, where I was given a hero’s welcome, which in Latvia consists of getting as many punches in the fleshy part of the arm as men you have killed. I got off easy.

So there you have it. I know I will be accused of blowing my own horn. Or being under a witch’s spell (which I get a lot). But my dedication to the Truth trumps my neurotic need to make stuff up out of whole cloth for the entertainment of complete strangers.