Not yet thirty, and already Selraybob is beaten down and washed up. He spends his days on his lounger, drinking quarts of beer and talking to his buddy Herm on the phone. Until, during his wife’s long-overdue kiss-off speech, Selraybob notices two clocks. They’re seven minutes off. And he has an epiphany. Time, he decides, is a count. It’s only a count. Einstein was wrong. And life on the lounger will never be the same.