Too Much Free Time
“Dude, I sold my Ferrari,” my boy said to me.
Only he would throw off my workflow with some breaking news like that.
“Wait…you what?” I asked.
“I sold the house, too. We move in two weeks.”
It was like the dang Twilight Zone. “Upgrade?” I asked.
“Down,” he said. I was in disbelief.
“You sell your brain WITH that house? And…the ride? You not in trouble, are you?”
He laughed so hard that I thought he shredded his vocal chords. I just stared at him, imagining throwing a football at that mole in the middle of his left cheek.
“I’m kidding,” he said, sobering up.
“I was about to say.”
“But I’m not.”
“So you’re just tryna break my concentration, here. Cool.”
“Dude,” he said, “I did sell the Rarri and the house.”
“I’m assuming you’re gonna shock me with the why,” I said condescendingly.
My buddy shrugged his shoulders. “It’s overrated. I don’t need it. I’m over it. She and I are getting a five-thousand
square foot home.”
The home he lived in at the time was nearly twice the size.
“And…” he started with a stupid looking smile on his face, “I’m now the proud owner of a Chevy Suburban. Isn’t that cool?”
“Wonderful.”
“You getting one too?”
“No.”
“You should get one too.”
“Get out.”
My buddy studied me from the other end of the table for a moment. “You know, Phon, you REALLY need to get a
Suburban.”
“You really need to get out so that I can finish this funnel.”
“Your loss,” he said, before heading towards my kitchen to eat my crap up that he didn’t pay for. I chuckled, shaking my head, and went back to work.
A typical day in the life of two professional slackers.
Stephon “Phon” Rudd
