A Day in the Life of . . .

So I call up this one friend and he's not answering the cell so I figure he's busy working. Irritating but, hell, I suppose everyone needs to have a hobby or something and he probably enjoys doing whatever he does. Work's not such a big thing with me. I prefer to stay at home and mooch off my parents. It's a happier pastime than waking up every morning, scrubbing and bleeding yourself in that satanic ritual of getting ready for work and then hauling yourself off to some no-name office to consort with a bunch of busy-body losers all in the miserable hope of collecting a few pennies at the end of the day. I mean, who the hell would want to do that when you can stay at home and watch Oprah? Crazy people, I tell you.

So anyways, after I hang up on this guy, I call up another buddy of mine to get the four-one-one on our weekend plans. I love weekends. It's like, the whole week you stay at home and watch TV and then the big beautiful weekend rolls by and you have a reason to live again. The malls are brimming with loony teenagers, freshly released from the auguries of innocence and into the tumultuous world of hormones and other juvenile afflictions. They're quite a sight, these daft young fools, hand in sweaty hand, earnestly devoted in their pimply love for each other. It makes you wonder sometimes how we all managed to survive that terrible age, puberty, with all its scars and riddles, its vast arsenal of chemical torments, and still emerge unscathed and as fresh as newly driven snow. It must be one of the miracles of life. Or make-up perhaps. There's no end to the wonders a good apricot scrub can pull off.

So anyways, I call up this other buddy and he's not picking the phone up either and I'm like, what the hell! Is this like an epidemic of working sickness or something. I mean, what's wrong with you guys! Just because you have wives and children and bills to pay and mouths to feed, it doesn't mean you can't take a couple days off a week to have a good time. Or at least answer your phone. What's the point of it all, anyways? Why are you working so hard if you can't even enjoy the paltry fruit of your labours by kicking back and watching Oprah reruns? Is life really that bad that you have to sign your soul off to the corporate devil and stick your head in the meat grinder. These guys, I tell you. I wonder if the little puppies at the mall, these days found cloyed in love, will turn out to be worker slaves as well, chained and shackled to their matchbox cubicles, dismally eating last night's leftovers out of tupperware boxes with plastic spoons. The mere thought is enough to make you want to smother yourself in Belgian chocolate.