Phil is annoyed, frustrated and apoplectic with rage. He worked as a safety instructor at a famous theme park, named “Hippy Dippy” to be precise. But he turned out to be a bit too hippy dippy to be trusted with anyone’s safety. This last day he got high before his shift and tuned out of everything and so when 9 year old Max kept shouting from the pool, Phil was in a trance of his own, 2 hours and a lot of explaining later, Phil was fired. He sat in his dumpster-esque pickup truck and drove back to his place.
By the time his head hit the pillow, his mellow was dampening up and he could realize the massive cock-up he had illustrated a couple of hours ago. Thoughts of his future dawned upon him, how was he going to manage his rent and utility payments? Anxious by the mere thought, Phil rushed to his drawer, scoured the entire damn thing but could not find an ounce of dope to smoke. Saddened by this, he sat on the couch again. Thinking long and hard, what could he possibly do to alleviate his woes, and voila. He came to glance upon a box of pain killers that had been prescribed to him 3 months ago by Dr Patel up at the Mount Sinai Health Clinic, for back pain. So Phil thought “why not?”.
Phil swallowed the first pill dry, to reach for a bottle of water seemed a bit too much of hard work, the man hadn’t worked hard a single day of his life, so how could he now? He gave it a good 15 minutes (2 minutes in reality) and was disheartened when he saw no visible changes. So he took 2 more, and then 3 and then 4. In a total of 30 minutes, he ended up consuming 10 tablets.
After 18 seconds, Phil saw God, and God said “C’mon you disgusting druggo, give me my rent or get the hell out of my place”. Turns out Phil was having a heart attack and a schizophrenic attack simultaneously. He saw Samuel L. Jackson in his Pulp Fiction avatar asking him for money and thought it was God.
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