One time Jesus told this story about a rich dude who had two sons. The kids loved their old man, but, like most rich kids (read: those polo-humpers on the lacrosse team) the sons were entitled little punks who’d spent their high school years test driving BMWs and hanging out at Hollister. Especially the younger one (we’ll call him Chaz).
One day, Chaz got tired of stealing money out of his old man’s wallet and decided to go for the motherload.
“Look here, Pops,” he said. “I can’t keep crawling to you for cash every time I need a new set of subs.”
“Does that mean you’re getting a job?” asked his dad.
“Haha, yeah right. No, it means I want my inheritance and I want it now.”
Don’t ask me why, but Chaz’s dad caved quicker than a Chilean mine and forked over a briefcase full ‘o Benjamins. With his cash crammed carry-on under one arm and his collection of Dane Cook DVDs under the other, Chaz booked a one way ticket to the Big Easy and took off to get rich or die trying.
Life was pretty sweet for Chaz in those early days and anyone who’s seen Dumb and Dumber knows why. Life’s better when you have tons of money. Chicks, drugs, parties, penthouses, pet midgets, more chicks, more drugs, a half-dozen Hummers: it’s like he was basing his life on Nickelback’s song Rockstar.
Chaz was spending money like a hoarder at a garage sale, and he never stopped to ask himself where it was coming from. Before long, he found himself at the wrong end of the Biggie’s Happiness Theorum: “No Money, Mo’ Problems.” His career as a DJ/club promoter hadn’t really panned out for him. Neither had his investments in his buddies’ cross-fit gym, bicycle rickshaw company, and Hooters franchise, respectively.
Finally, when his last “bro” had bailed on him and his last dollar had been pissed away on lotto scratchers and Swedish Fish, Chaz knew it was time for desperate measures. He put in an application at White Castle, got hired, and was sent immediately to work the grill.
The dude was at rock bottom. And we’re not talking “Hollywood Rock Bottom” where it’s all like, “waaaahh, Scarlett Johansson broke up with me! I’m gonna sit here and eat Hot and Readies until I die! Oh wait. Look who’s here. It’s Jessica Alba; my crazy-hot best friend who I’ve never realized was crazy-hot until this exact moment. She’s come to cheer me up and we’ll now spend the rest of the movie falling in love.”
Not that kind of rock bottom. Chaz was at deep, dark, depressing rock bottom – the kind only known by David Hasselhoff and Cubs fans in October. It got so bad that one day he looked at the grease-saturated sliders he was serving to the pigs who eat at White Castle, and he thought to himself, “man, I could really go for some White Castle right now.”
Fortunately, he regained consciousness before he actually ate one. “What’s wrong with me?” he said. “Even Ignacio, the ginger-haired street urchin who shines my dad’s shoes, doesn’t have to eat White Castle! Screw this noise. I’m going home. I’ll tell dad I’m a loser and see if maybe he’ll put me on the landscape crew or something.”
So Chaz headed home. He was rehearsing his big speech the whole way up the driveway, but he ended up not needing it. His dad practically flat-backed him with a flying bear hug bigger than any Chaz had gotten since his last time at AA. Turns out, the old man had done nothing for the past year but sit on the front porch and swear at the neighbor kids while he waited for Chaz to come home.
When he saw his son walking up the drive, he went into full party-planner mode. “Bring out Chaz’s lucky Pacman Jones jersey,” he said to a nearby servant. “And his lucky Lacoste hat. And crack open that 20-year scotch I’ve been saving, and toss that slab of ribs on the grill. Let’s get after it! My baby boy has come home and he didn’t bring any strippers with him!”
While all this was going down, Chaz’s older brother (let’s call him Brad) was laying sod out behind the house, and I mean that in the least sexual way possible. He was coming inside for dinner when he heard Black Eyed Peas music blaring from the outdoor speakers.
“What, in the name of Eddie Van Halen, is that noise?” he asked Ignacio the Shoeshine.
“It’s your little brother,” said Ignacio. “I guess he’s back from his year-long bender and your dad is throwing a kegger.”
Now I don’t have to tell you how pissed big brother Brad was about this, but I will anyway: he was super pissed. He sat on the patio, pouting and chewing Copenhagen Long Cut, until his dad came out to beg him to come inside.
“I can’t believe you,” said Brad. “Here I am, all day every day, busting my butt to keep this place running, and you’ve never given me so much as a DiGiornos to eat with my buddies while we watch Ice Road Truckers. And now, what? This little degenerate comes home with who knows how many different kinds of herpes and you throw a rager for him?!”
“Don’t be like that,” said the dad. “You’re my boy. You’ll always be my boy. But your little brother was waist deep in hookers this time last week and now he’s come back to us! Why don’t you come in and get your freak on with us?”
Brad spit out his lipper and followed his dad into the party. He was pissed at Chaz, no doubt about that, but he wasn’t nearly pissed enough to pass up twenty year scotch.