He was a fiddler, and consequently a rogue.

Fiddler on the Roof.

We wanted to bring 'Fiddler,' and bring it to a larger audience.

That's okay. If we are attacked by zombies I don't have to run fast. I just have to run faster than you.

Off flew his shirt, which landed on an outstretched arm of the ceiling fan. 'Beats me. God, is there a padlock on this thing?'
'It's not rocket science, Driggs. It's a bra.'
'It's a Rubik's cube of diabolical proportions, is what it - ha! Suck it, evil underwear!' Triumphant, he flung the unfastened conundrum across the room [...]

Ferbus assumed a hyperventilating position, his hands on his knees. 'Oh no,' Skyla said, concern splashing across her face. 'Is he anemic? Clinically asthmatic?'
'No,' Uncle Mort said, thwacking Ferbus on the head as he started climbing the stairs. 'Just lazy.'
'Clinically lazy!' Ferbus wheezed.