The Valet, aka The Adventures of Will Ferrell and the Scandinavian

CHAPTER 1, Part 1 “Have a nice day.” In Manhattan, New York, Monday, 9:28 a.m., in his ever so cramped bed space under a stairwell, an average guy named Will Ferrell startles to a sitting position, and bumps his temple. *** Then, not repeating the same foul word, for three straight minutes, as if a true cuss master, he curses words wholly unfit for print, and curses above and beyond everyday foul mouth themes; as a cuss virtuoso, yet high cultural style, within a lowbrow art form, a sweet science of exceptional foul-speak designed to shock and provoke the senses. *** And yet, if done in a certain way, it reveals a well-seasoned mind; certain refined judgment, sentiment and taste, even scholarship—as odd as that sounds—and with a well-crafted mastery of aesthetics, of nature, art, beauty, taste, and especially the sublime. *** Will Ferrell, yet his real name is David Ferrell? No, no, no. David! Is the only name on his birth certificate, one name, as some people only have one name. *** Then he rubs his temple, reels, and looks about this cramped apartment: if a person might call it a studio apartment, as it resembles life under a cramped stairwell, and next to the bed is a small faded photograph of an old, dark-blue step van, a multipurpose enclosed motor vehicle. *** Then he says rest, “Yes, and relax. “Yes. “Breathe. “Yes. “Really breathe, and lay back. “Yes. “Relax, really relax.”