Free I'm Not High by Jim Breuer

the same:
    “I don’t get you your drinks until you get me my glasses, got it?”
    Pretty soon, I was just giving my tables to other waiters and waitresses. I got great pleasure whining and complaining back and forth with this kid who worked there as a dishwasher. Once as I was icing my fingers after having slammed them in a door, he came up to me with a puzzled look and said, “Dude, what are we doing here?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “My parents moved to Florida, man. I’m just trying to get by.”
    “Yeah, but why are we working?” he asked. He was getting philosophical about bussing tables and washing dishes at TGI Friday’s. “Why can’t we just hang out? Life should be about hanging out, not working. We should be like the Indians, man.”
    “I agree!” I said, even though it was my understanding that Indians had it pretty tough. Those awesome leather pants they wore didn’t make themselves. But the hanging out part of his speech resonated. My dishwasher friend had a point. My TGI Friday’s career was far from fulfilling.
    While he was saying all of this, we were watching an ice cream truck pulling up into the parking lot. The driver hopped out and started unloading all of these giant barrels of ice cream.
    “Bro,” my buddy said, eyeing them up, “I’m quitting right now.”
    “Yeah,” I replied, “me, too.” What did I have to lose, after all? “Should we tell them we’re quitting or just leave?”
    “No way,” he said, “Let’s just leave, bro.”
    So we quit right on the spot. And as we were sneaking away, we started looking closer at that ice cream truck. Real close. The delivery guy had gone inside the restaurant leaving a truckful of delicious ice cream unattended. We both had the same idea at the same time.
    “Open your trunk,” my friend said.
    We quickly snagged three or four giant barrels of ice cream, and floored it over to my sister’s place in Valley Stream; we were laughing our asses off the whole way. It felt like payback, I guess, to the whole Friday’s infrastructure that was unfairly keeping us down. We got to her place and hauled the ice cream into her house, extremely psyched about our caper, before realizing that the barrels would not fit in any normal-sized freezer.
    “Dude,” I said, “what the hell are we gonna do with this ice cream?”
    So we went out on the street and started giving it to all the kids in the neighborhood. We were like the Robin Hoods of pilfered chain-restaurant ice cream. Later we bought a bunch of Tupperware containers and scooped the ice cream into them to better store what was left of it. Genius idea. I’d just quit my job, I was getting kicked out of my cockroach-infested crash pad, I had very little money, and what I did have I spent on Tupperware for stolen ice cream.
    Yep, clearly living in Florida was all that was keeping me from realizing my full potential. So I moved into my sister’s place for a while in Valley Stream and soon enough I was ready to go back to Florida and give living with my parents a second chance. My attitude had changed. I wasn’t going to be mean-spirited anymore. I would find a job. I would not puke on any relatives. And I would count my blessings, like having a swimming pool and a face free from crawling cockroaches.
    Based on the extensive industry knowledge I accrued working at TGI Friday’s, I enrolled in hotel and restaurant management classes at Tampa College. It made my mom happy because my parents always were so pragmatic about my having a fallback career. At that point, having only the Long Island Governor’s gigs and opening for my friends’ bands under my belt, no one in my family trusted that comedy was going to do it for me.
    I took a real estate class, but I cheated on the exam. My sister Patti took it with me, and the whole time, I was like, “Pssssst! What did you get for number fourteen?” She wouldn’t tell me and, needless to say, I didn’t get very far in that field. None of