My Life Of Crime

August 1, 2016 5:01 amComments Off on My Life Of CrimeViews: 48

On the day after Thanksgiving, I woke up and decided to begin my life of crime. Motivated by misanthropy, steeped in hatred for my fellow human beings, I decided to devote my soul to Evil and my every waking moment to the doing of Wrong. Such a course is not to be charted randomly. My first task was to immerse myself fully in the mindset of rebellion and lawlessness.

I sat in my living room and focused my mind on the most evil, disturbing images I could conjure. Lawyers kicking puppies. Florida voters. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Roscoe the Clown, who did the children’s entertainment at my company picnic a couple of years back. Telemarketers at their desks. Rosie O’Donnell. Obese men mowing their lawns and tanning their back hair. (Wait, that’s the same thing twice.) The Reverend Al Sharpton. The Reverend Al Sharpton kicking puppies. The Reverend Al Sharpton kicking puppies while mowing his lawn with his shirt off.

Still, disturbing as all of that was, it was not evil enough. I spent an hour staring at the television with the channel tuned to a station “blacked out”‘ by the FCC. I squinted as best I could to see the forbidden pixels, to allow the photons of the illegal syndicated programming to wash over my retinas, despite my government’s best attempts to protect me from myself. This, while feeling very evil, still was not enough.

I searched the apartment for those tags that say “Do not remove this tag.” I checked the sofa, the bed, the pillows. I couldn’t find any. I went into the kitchen hoping to find and take vitamins that were past their expiration date, but all our Centrum was fresh and our Vitamin C current. I ate an entire box of Rice Krispies Treats. Feeling sick rather than evil, I decided to leave.

I sat behind the wheel of my Pontiac, which, while quite evil, was still not evil enough by itself. I idled the motor for three hours, hoping to destroy the environment. I sat in the parking lot honking the horn as if to summon someone from inside my building.

I was failing in my bid to embrace the Darkness. I tried tuning my car radio to the local Urban Beat station, turning it up as loud as it would go. Without a real low-riding “boom car,” though, I couldn’t muster enough beat to bother myself, let alone anyone in the vicinity. So I threw the Pontiac in drive and took to the highways, determined to commit crimes against society.

I drove for four blocks on only two wheels. I chased seagulls. I frightened old men and small children, sneering from my open window and spitting on the sidewalk. I drove to the Southern Tier college of Alfred University, drove through the Quad, got out of my car, kicked the life-sized bronze statue of Alfred the Great, and tore up the lawn as I left the property. I drove back home and traveled the whole way on sidewalks and through cow pastures.

I searched the city for a bus full of nuns so that I could sideswipe it, but had to settle for tailgating a sedan festooned with “student driver” labels. I set fire to my Firestone tires and drove smoking and flaming like Stephen King’s Christine through the worst sections of town, just waiting for my wheels to explode. I drove through the drive-through windows of every fast food restaurant I could find, refusing to order anything and shouting Zen koans at the cashiers. I drove to the Mayor’s house and stuffed his mailbox with my three-week’s accumulation of six hundred “Heartland” mail-order catalogs.

On the way home I got pulled over and ticketed for speeding and passing in a no-passing zone. Then I went to The Cracker Barrel.

“Yes, I’ll have the baby duck, wrapped in the baby sea otter, stuffed with milk-fed veal and impregnated with baby goose, marinated in the lobster bisque and served in a hollowed-out goat’s head,” I said. When they told me I couldn’t have that because they don’t serve that, I told the server that I would just have whatever was deepest fried.

If you’re eating at The Cracker Barrel, add the adjective “chicken-fried” in front of all that. The Cracker Barrel is truly a culinary experience to rival all others; their beverage menu includes milk and gravy, which is a single item. Only at the The Cracker Barrel can you get chicken-fried salad; only at The Cracker Barrel can you get an entire alpaca fried in its own juices, breaded, then fried again and served with cheese stuffing.

But still they looked at me weird, and I don’t blame them. It reminded me of a time when I overheard a couple of young girls talking about the election, back when Bush and Gore were duking it out. I was pretty young then, but I remember it like it was yesterday:

I was there to buy a couple of microwave pizzas and a tube of cookie dough, which, if you’re on my meticulously crafted diet, represents three of the four possible food groups. As I was walking up to the counter, the two teenaged minimum-wage-slave girls behind the counter were talking amongst themselves.

“Have you heard that Bush is going to be our next president?” cashier number one sneered.

“I know,” complained cashier number two. “Bush is such a moron.”

“Yeah, he is,” cashier number one agreed. “But Gore is going to secede tonight.”

Now, to be fair, she might not have said “secede.” Her diction came wrapped around a thyroid-sized wad of gum. She might have said “succeed.”

I looked at her. I snapped.

“Do you not see the incredible irony here, foolish girl?” I bellowed, leaping on top of the checkout counter. “Do you not see that while you are excoriating pitiful Dubya for being a ‘moron,’ you are proving yourself as blatantly stupid?”

Just then an off-duty English teacher ran to the front of the store, knocking over the Hostess display as he hurled himself at me. He knocked me from the counter with an arm-bar sweep to my calves, then jumped on me and put me in a head lock. “You pitiful cretin!” he hissed. “The letter ‘W’ is pronounced ‘DOUBLE-EWE,’ not ‘Dubya!'”

“Three twenty-one is your change,” the cashier said to me.

I blinked. Hallucination. There was no irate English teacher.

Taking my rumpled change, I walked into the snowy night, back into a world where crimes against Proper English go forever unavenged.

Compared to all this, hiring an escort seems like something somebody nice would do, doesn’t it?