Bueller

Sometimes, friends, you just want to kick back and chill the fuck out. If that means just taking it easy and having a fucking Ferris Bueller moment, then so be it. I need to take a break more often.

Here I am back in the day relaxing Young Matthew Broderick style on my sun lounger, my boyish good looks not yet lost to years of mediocre rolls on the New York stage, hot pastrami sandwiches with spicy mustard, come-ons from the whores on 7th Avenue, etc.

Please peep the cordless phone. Cutting edge. I'm calling my dealer. Because CLEARLY anybody about to embark on The Day Off of a fucking lifetime needs to get that shit started RIGHT. That and the drugs help to drown out the noise of the Hawaiian shorts I am wearing.



But it's not just all about fun in the sun, I like to take in some culture. Why just the other day my constant downer of a best friend Cameron, my 'MUST be about 35 year old' girlfriend Sloane and I went to look at some art. Check my art pose. Neat, huh?



But guess what, it's not a fucking day off until you head up a parade, singing a tender rendition of Danke Shoene, followed by the rousing, gut-busting dance-a-thon that is Twist and Shout. Fucking AYYYYYYY.



ah youth, my sweet teen years, skippin' skool, fucking wit Mr. Rooney, pretending to be the sausage king of Chicago. God I miss it. I'm such a SUIT now. The Man has me under his thumb. I've got to break free.

BUT HOW?




Buckskin trousers, y'all. That's how. You heard it here first. This bird you cannot tame.