Jodan is Twenty-Seven

It was a brilliant Friday afternoon, the kind that makes you thank God (whoever she is) that you don’t have a regular job. My nephew and I celebrated by biking to Maracas Bay. It was great; our groins throbbed with the vibrations of those powerful chrome-plated babies. All morning long we did man-things, roaring along the beach spraying sand all over the chicks, ripping beer cans open with our teeth and belching out loud.

We spent the rest of this glorious day on my balcony, the perfect vantage point for watching neighbours in their buff new Audis break an axle in the craters along Maraval Road. We lounged around in our genuine Levi’s with the easy-access button-up flies and reminisced about the best sleeveless vests we ever had and how much fun it is to puke in the dirt at rock concerts.

Then with the sun going down and the haunting melody of the world’s most famous cat Qu’est-ce que-K beating the crap out of the world’s other most famous cat, Lunatic-K, we grabbed our crotch, cracked open a few more cold ones and contemplated what a great firetrucking thing it is to be a guy.