The American Spectator

“Hey, man, you wanna have breakfast,” he asked his buddies, for it must be morning somewhere.

“Where, outside?”

“Takeout, a—hole.”

“Not that same old pizza. I hate that stuff.”

“Nah, I found a new place on the ’net. They’ve got anchovies and all kinds of s—t.”

“Order me one. I’ll pay you later.”

“What’s later, man? You already owe me $300 from last week.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you soon as I get my check.”

“What check?”

“What check?”

“Yeah, what check? What kinda disease you got?”

“Are you kiddin’ me, man? I got A-D-D. My mother had me diagnosed in third grade. That’s when I started on Ritalin. Now I get $200 a week. Is that cool or what?”

“Hey, man,” said Buzz, “I gotta get if my ol’ lady to fix me up wi’ somethin’ like that.”

“Hey guys, how many pizzas do we want,” said Brandon, trying to maintain some sense of purpose. “Two? Three?”

“Two.”