The Fine Print

On my walk home from work a few days ago I came across a recently poured concrete curb. Now I don’t know about your moral flexibilities, but to me fresh concrete is just begging to be messed with. Fresh concrete is the girl that wears a push-up bra under a shirt that’s 3 sizes too small and then gets pissy when all the boys keep staring at her chest. In no way am I excusing unwanted harassment from men but c’mon, no one wears a push-up bra to NOT have their boobs noticed.

Back to the slutty and wanton concrete curb. My attention had been grabbed, and the decision to do something rebellious had been made. Next step: the Follow Through. This is the stage where I usually fail. Some people call it “wussing out” – I prefer to think of it as “giving the consequences some serious consideration as they can often affect the rest of your life.” And when those people go do something stupid and get in trouble for it, I’m sure to be right there saying “Sucka! I guess you should have weighed the consequences, huh?” You know, just to gently remind them that there are sometimes better choices they could make in their lives. I’m a supportive friend like that.

Overcoming my fear that the exploit I was considering might keep me from one day running for Prime Minister (consequences!!), I looked over my shoulder (13 times), gently pushed the pad of my thumb into the curb making a perfect indentation and then sprinted home as if Lucifer himself was hot on my heels. (Hey, hardcore criminals run too! I saw it on COPS. And I dare you to argue that COPS isn’t in the same league as any PBS documentary when it comes to the accurate portrayal of real life. No, I double-dog dare you).

So I was on my bike yesterday thinking about all this for a considerable amount of time. Bike rides are when I have limited distractions from the voices bumping around in my head and am forced to actually listen to their disturbing content (always a mistake). It was during yesterday’s mental chatter that it struck me how stupid my little act of defiance had been. I quite literally left a giant thump print embedded in concrete for the entire world to see. I mean, those guys on CSI can lift a partial print from some hard to reach spot on the underside of a bedroom dresser (where clearly the murderer rested his hand as he paused from his hacking and slashing to catch his breath – fun fact: doing 50 stabs burns a whopping 400 calories!) in minutes. Shit, and here I’ve just handed them a perfect and intact print giving them all the information they need to track me down and send me off to prison. Wow. My stupidity on this one even impresses me. Word to the wise: don’t ever enlist my help in a stakeout, bank robbery or sting operation. I will be the weakest link. Guaranteed. ("Hey guys! Why are you sitting in your car all slouched down like that? Its not sunny today, whats with the dark glasses? Whoa, its awfully warm to be wearing a trench coat isn't it??")

After spending the entire night up listening for the squad car coming to take me away, I've decided that I need to go back to the scene of the crime and somehow erase that print. I know what you’re going to say - “What is this, amateur hour? You NEVER go back to the scene of the crime!” – and normally I would agree but I've got to do something because I can't handle this stress! They would tear me apart in prison. Obviously because of my good looks, but more likely (and dangerous) would be my sense of humor betraying me within the first 10 minutes of arriving. FACT: People in the big-house find incarceration jokes even less funny than airport security guards find bomb jokes.

I was thinking I could casually wander by the curb tomorrow on my way to work and discreetly scratch the thing off with a jackhammer stick or something. But that's kinda stressing me out even more because now we've entered the realm of maliciously defacing City of Vancouver Property. I hear that's a stoning offense! Oh god. Ok. I think the important thing here is to remain calm. How can we come up with a viable plan if we’re all freaked out about the fuzz busting down our door and throwing our asses in jail?! (See how cunningly I made you an accomplice? And I’m really sorry but that’s just the way things played out. You knew the risks when you visited this blog so there’s no use whining about it. Think people, think!)

If you come up with a way to get us out of this mess, contact me ASAP. I’ll be at the Pharmasave buying some Xanax to take the edge off…