Bad Biscuits

It was a grueling eight-hour shift that felt like forever, but finally, it was over. Joe somehow drove home without crashing, and he staggered through the front door of his tiny one-bedroom apartment.

Kicking off his shoes, he took a bite of the leftover biscuit sandwich lying on the counter since morning. “Yuck, nasty,” he gagged as he spit the food into the sink. “Bad biscuits.” Too tired to look for something else to eat, he flopped on the couch to take a nap.

He had barely closed his eyes when the phone rang. “Go away,” he groaned, as he let the call go to voicemail.

The phone rang again. Irritated, Joe checked the Caller ID, sighed, and pressed the answer button. “What’s up, man?”

“Hey birthday boy! I know it’s short notice, but I got a gift for you. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“No can-do Fred,” I’m out of gas. Let me nap, then come over in a couple of hours and we’ll order pizza or something.”

“Umm…well Joe, that won’t work. We’re going out for your birthday tonight.”

“Well yeah…no, not tonight. I’m thrashed. Sorry, man.”

“OK, I guess I’ll have to spoil your surprise. What if I told you I got two tickets for the Bad Biscuits, they’re playing tonight at the Pavilion.”

A surge of energy coursed through Joe’s veins, and suddenly he didn’t feel the least bit tired at all. “The Bad Biscuits? No way! They’re my favorite band!”

“Uh yeah, I know, that’s why I got the tickets, Bozo,” Fred laughed. “I’ll be over in thirty.”

The call ended, and Joe shook his head, amazed. Mere moment before he was exhausted, his energy sapped. Now, fully awake with renewed energy—he was ready for a night out with his best friend, listening to his most favorite band in the world. 

He remembered the bad biscuit sandwich from moments before, and he  laughed at the irony. Sometimes, Bad Biscuits are exactly what a man needs.