So, Rhoda finally bails me out…why the hell did it take her like, four days? You don’t think she’s been giving hoagie examinations to my neighbor Rick, do ya? Oh, man, if that’s the case, two can play at that. Look out entire Eagles cheerleading squad (including alternates).

Anyway, I get out today and I’m all, “where’s the party?” It sure ain’t on Broad Street no more. I’ll make my own fiesta if need be. I’m just p.o.’d I missed that damn parade. That’s some once in a lifetime s-hit. It’s like being just a few blocks away from Jesus when he signed the Magna Carte Blanche and not bein’ able to see it or smoke out with him afterwards.

But don’t feel too bad for me, ok? I had my own party in my cell. I marched back and forth past my cot for 42 hours straight (I eventually passed out). It was hard getting my cellmate, Dave, to join in for more than a couple minutes because of his being more wasted than my dad was on my wedding day.

It’s all good, though. And it’s just like John F. Kennedy said that day when he was in Germany:

“Ick! I’ve met nine Berliners but I’m Philly to the bone!”