Look at you, man. Working your "9 to 5." Where's your soul, man? You used to be cool. Man.
What you don't seem to get is that this ain't a game. This is life, bro. This ain't some kooky-ass game you play with your grandma. How is she by the way?
You gotta start livin' your life, man, 'cause I know you ain't like all them other suckers going to their "9 to 5s" like a bunch of cyborgs. Nor are you like them other suckers, going to their "10 to 6s" or "7 to 3s." Wake up and smell the coffee, dude.
I've always said, if I ever become one of them squares you see running for the train in the morning, just shoot me man. It ain't my fault the people I say that to are London police officers, and that I look like a Brazilian electrician.
You need to chill, man. That "career" you've been bitching about is nothing but a crock. You're a slave to the Man, man. I don't do no job for nobody, and I'm living a real life, dude. Way beyond the comprehension of all them squares you work for down at that "supermarket" you work at, Mr Big Shot.
So think about that, while you're slave away for some rich guy who's just gonna spend all his dough on a new Mercedes or his bitch. Think about how you could be living a real life with me. Think about how you would be getting invited to all the real parties, with all the real people. Think about how you could buy real White Lightning with your real giro from the real Job Centre. Think about it, man. Don't say I didn't warn you when you're trapped in the 'burbs with a couple of kids, man. Don't say I didn't warn you.
P.S. If you do get stuck in the 'burbs, could I come and stay? Thanks, man.