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"Paul, yo man, wake up.
C'mon dude, rise." You wake up with a start. It's your friend Keith.
You look at him angrily and ask him what the hell he's doing in
your room. "Don't be a deusche Paul," he sighs, "you fell asleep
at IKEA again. C'mon get up, my boss
is gonna fire me, and so is YOURS unless you get your ass over to
the food court in like two seconds."
You look around and see
that he's right. You're not in your room but in an IKEA
bedroom display.
You were born with narcolepsy
and a severe sleepwalking habit--your weed habit came a little later,
but all three work against you in securing a foreign sleeping place
almost every night. You throw the cottony Swedish sheets off you
and fling yourself out of bed, almost knocking over a cardboard
entertainment center. "Later dude, thanks," you yell over your shoulder,
"I'll see ya at break and we'll burn one!"
You hightail it through
the mall, thanking God you at least didn't take off your urine soaked
uniform from last night. Two minutes later you're behind the counter
of the KFC in the FoodCourt. "Sweet!" you say to yourself and give
yourself a mental high-five. The boss isn't here yet.
Just then you notice
that Lenny, your 43 year old retarded co-worker--bless his heart--left
the storage room open again.
If you slip behind the
boxes of hotsauce for a quick nap, go to page 2
if you get to work refilling
the napkin dispensers, go to page 3
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