Wicked Good Fun

SLOTH

HOW TO BE A LAZY PIG FOR 24 HOURS
There's a place that's Big Rock Candy Mountain and Shangri-la rolled up in a psychiatrist's prescription pad. A place where there is no trouble, far from spreadsheets and pink slips and yipping imps in tailored suits. A place where the crowds drain into gutters, where everything is made of Belgian chocolate, and where there's no such thing as a Registry of Motor Vehicles.

You have that place within yourself. It's called "slacking off." And in the vale of tears we call the modern American economy, it's the surest chance you have for happiness.

But how to do it? It's easy to suggest a regimen of low stress and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. For us earnest, hard-working Yankees, it's much harder to follow one. The rub here is responsibility: The more you have, the more obstacles lie in the way of sloth. Of happiness. You have to clear away these responsibilities like so much Texas brush. Of course they'll grow back, but life is short and the joy of digital cable is fleeting. The perfect state of nature is horizontal—legs out and belly up before the television, one hand in a tub of something ranch flavored, the other on a quart of beer (with a catheter to pipe away the byproduct). Loose pants or none at all.

That is a true rejection of responsibility. That is the American Dream.

To reject responsibility, you'll need two things:

1. A friend or relation in elected office.

2. A job that involves working for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

If you lack those, obtain these five things:

1. A telephone.

2. A master remote control.

3. A generously stocked liquor cabinet.

4. Ice.

5. Privacy.

Now you're ready to begin shedding responsibilities. With a glass of something flammable in hand, determine what it is, exactly, you must not achieve. What chore can you absolutely not tolerate? Grocery-shopping weigh in your gut? Painting the walls put you off-color? Decide what it is that you positively must not get done, then don't do it.

And here's how not to do it. We're going to save you the trouble of even planning how to weasel out of your chores, or at least how to pawn them off on someone else.

8 a.m. Piss off, world. Time to call in sick.

10 a.m. Arise, dear soul, and let the sun caress you into gentle wakefulness.

10:15 a.m. The doorbell rings, interrupting your first nap. Answer the door for the good people from Crystal Clean (617-834-6729), a professional housecleaning service that you've hired to disinfect your abode. As they get to work cleaning out the gutters and dusting the moldings around the ceiling, you return to bed.

10:30 a.m. They've made the bed, damn them.

11 a.m. Ed and Chantal Boxer of Fini Concierge arrive (617-247-0043, www.finiconcierge.com). At $38 to $50 an hour, they perform whatever unbearable tasks you demand: waiting in line at the post office, taking Rex to the vet, filling out Grandma's Medicaid forms. Today you've hired them to make soothing ocean noises while mixing up a day's supply of delicious fruit margaritas.

Noon Who would have thought Maury Povich still had a job?

12:30 p.m. Lunch is delivered by Real Meals (617-629-7325, www.realmeals2u.com), a father-son team who prepare homemade dishes and pack them into insulated cooler bags, ready for heating. Slow-cooked boneless beef rib with thyme in a red wine sauce, for instance. Entrées range from $9 to $13; sides, $4 to $7.

1:30 p.m. Time to get a little air. Have Fini Concierge bring you some.

2:30 p.m. Susan Mullins, your personal shopper (617-437-0490, www.susanstyle.com), arrives to size you up and inject your wardrobe with a dose of professional good taste. For $200 a day (cost of clothing not included), she'll assemble all the outfits you require. Considering you're now on the short road to a state of lumpen vegetation, you request a designer sweatsuit.

4 p.m. Is it happy hour yet? You bet it is.

5 p.m. Feeling the encroachment of bedsores, you pull yourself off the sofa and waddle to the fridge. The door feels heavy. You must get Fini Concierge to replace it with a lighter one.

6 p.m. Your personal chef arrives, pans and ingredients in tow (Artisan Fare, 781-662-0985, www.artisanfare.com; De Cuzine, 617-867-4620, www.decuzine.com; A Fresh Endeavor, 781-860-0222, www.afreshendeavor.com). For about $350, you've hired him to prepare a week's worth of meals—such as Dijon-crusted lamb—all ready to eat. You pour a glass of pinot grigio and watch him sweat.

8 p.m. That vicarious sweating wore you out. After dinner, you decide to log a few hours of quality prime-time television viewing. God bless Dancing with the Stars.

10:10 p.m. Doze off to the dulcet voice of Channel 25 news anchor Maria Stephanos describing a quadruple shotgun slaying.

11 p.m. Sit bolt upright, your eyes wide with horror. You just had a nightmare that tomorrow's a workday. Thank God it was only a dream . . .

8 a.m. Call in sick.