Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Thursday, August 26, 2010

Screwing The Pooch


Today, I proudly present a nasty little gem from guest blogger Jesus Canterbury.

I answered the door. It was my friend Johnny, with a plastic Target bag in tow. He was bug eyed and frazzled, like he just saw his mom sucking off his dad. His light grey sweater was speckled with either wine or blood. He barged in, knocking me out of his way, sending me tumbling over the nearest couch.

"What the fuck, dick smooch?" was all I could muster in retaliation.

"Sorry, buddy. Shit. Fuck. I don't know what to do. I'm freaking out." His erratic behavior and speech pattern reminded me of the 2 AM crack heads on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.

"Okay guy. Slow down. Start at the beginning."

"Well...I get home from work, open the front door, and I was thinking about how I should have peed before I left. All of a sudden, that fricken dog started biting and barking and pissing and shitting and I started kicking it."

In a matter of thirty seconds, he'd gone from erratic crackhead to a sobbing, crying drunkard.

"First off, shut the fuck up," I told him.

"Sorry, sir," Johnny replied. He flopped the Target bag onto my coffee table. In it lay the bloody carcass of a miniature poodle.

"Second off, who knows about this?"

"Just you and me, man. I fucked up. Michelle's gonna kill me, or at least break up with me. It just attacked, I didn't know. I kicked it a lot. Now it's not breathing. I can't feel its heart beat neither."

"SHUT the fuck up! Now sit the fuck down, and listen to everything I am about to tell you."

He proceeded to shut the fuck up and listen.

"First, you are going to call your girlfriend and tell her you opened the front door, and the dog took off. Then, you will play it off like a runaway dog. You will be playing the part of a good, supportive boyfriend. You and Michelle will go drive around your neighborhood and those nearby. When finding nothing after a few days, you will put up some missing posters and call Animal Control.

Johnny's mouth hung open.

"In a couple months, you will come home with a little puppy. Try a shih tzu next time."

I handed Johnny my phone and told him it was time to call his girl.

I grabbed the Target bag and nonchalantly tossed it in the dumpster.
3:57 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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Wednesday, August 25, 2010

Petty Docudrama


file under: not proud of this

When I say "I don't wanna get caught up in the system again," you won't hear the same vehemence in my voice that you'd hear from say, a car thief, or a stickup artist. My tone would echo those stating opinions like "you should avoid gas station bathrooms" or "eating at White Castle can result in future agony."

I know it's borderline retarded to drive around without car insurance. (Am I being too generous?) That said, poverty is unforgiving, and sometimes you just gotta walk the edge. (I'm so dangerous.)

Three weeks ago, one of my headlights went out, and I didn't notice it. A cop sure did. I got a warning for the headlight and a ticket for operating a motor vehicle without proof of insurance. The cop kindly instructed me not to waste the court's time if I was actually covered. She told me to go the clerk and show proof. Unfortunately for me, I was far, far from home, out in the boondocks of Illinois, where Democrats like me generally fear to tread. Rectifying this mess would take a special trip.

Step one was purchasing actual insurance. Upon choosing cheap liability coverage, I received my documents and looked them over. I was hoping they would only show month/year timeframes, but alas, specific dates were present, and furthermore, the PDF was locked. I couldn't doctor it digitally.

I used the old 'print it, alter it, fax it to myself' trick. I went far enough to figure out the two dates were printed in Arial Narrow size 9, and were spaced 17 blank characters apart. With some scotch tape and a pair of fax machines reprogrammed to self-identify as my chosen insurance company, I set about laundering my proof of insurance.

My forgery was competent, given my limitations. Still, I have to admit, I was nervous. What if, upon presentation, I was questioned about my crappy fax copy? What if they called to verify my coverage? Would my provider simply affirm my policy's validity, or opt to provide detail? Would I have to concoct feeble lies about email attachment size limits? I had a vision of a blue haired old lady with bifocals, hateful of the public, scrutinizing my sad fax copy and looking up at me with suspicion, eager to ruin my day in any way possible.

I entered the provincial courthouse and strode up to the clerk's counter. Before me was a chubby twentysomething woman. Her skin was that sickly orange color that results from excessive spray tan. Her hairdo may have been a drowned muskrat.

I mentally reminded myself to say as little as possible. Liars often give themselves away, after all. She took my ticket and fax. I saw her lean down to look over the tiny numbers, comparing my coverage date range to the date of the ticket. She gave a quick nod, disappeared briefly to make a photocopy of my forgery, told me I didn't need to appear for the scheduled court date, and sent me on my way. Simple, easy, microwaveable, repeat as necessary.

In my life, I have now successful employed forgery and bribery in my battle to stay clear of the system. My bona fides as a traditional Chicagoan are solid.

Later this week, I promise: A guest post about a murdered dog
6:50 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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