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A good one from a web-site. Find it at www.punchlinemag.com
Confessions of a Bad Man
In My World, the Law is for Suckers
Written by Pete Humes
You might not know it from looking at me, but I'm a very bad man. Crime is not only my middle name, it's my address. It's my dog's name. It's my favorite color. I became enamored of a life due south of the law back before I even knew right from wrong. Which is assuming that at some point I learned the difference. Which I didn't. I told you I was bad.
Remember that commercial advertising a book about the wild west? The one where they talk about the notorious criminal who once killed a man for snoring? Big deal. I once took a snoring man, tied his laces together and pushed him down the stairs. When he woke up I told him it was an old lady that did it and then we went out and beat the crap out of an old lady. Sick, I know.
I'm not proud of my dark behavior in the way one might be proud of a green lawn or a wall full of diplomas. But I am proud of it in the same way someone is proud of very big muscles or a high score in miniature golf. People don't like me for the bad things I do, but that's kind of the point.
If you're the sort of sensitive individual who is always looking to fix what's broken, you can probably trace my problem back to the day I thought it would be a good idea to steal my first pack of gum. I walked into the store and the candy aisle seemed to go on forever. There was so much. Jellybeans. Blow pops. Gummi worms. I had a hard time choosing what to get with my dollar and I found myself depressed by the idea of walking out wishing I had something more. With two packs of Juicyfruit in hand I found that I could slip a Baby Ruth in my pocket and walk out relatively unnoticed. And with that single log of crunchy peanuts and creamy chocolate, my life of notoriousness had begun. I was 27.
Nowadays I don't waste my time stealing candy. It's much too easy and the chocolate doesn't satisfy nearly as much as the rush of adrenaline in the face of impending danger. But my addiction to living on the edge frightens me some. I'm not saying that my hardened cold soul has given way to softer emotions and regret, it's just that I don't know when too much will be too much. One can only hijack but so many tractor trailers and once they go over the cliff with a full payload of baby lambs, the day has pretty much peaked. The rest of the afternoon seems empty.
There's always the big scores I suppose. But I never was able to sit through for all the planning and plotting. All that scheming is never as satisfying as setting fire to a security guard's pants. It doesn't have the visceral thrill of heaving bowling balls onto parked cars or clogging toilets in fancy restaurants. These things bring me joy and therefore I should fill my days feeding the void of my happiness. Besides, there isn't any law that specifically forbids Super Gluing produce together. At least not that I've heard.
So think of me what you will, call me a miscreant and rally for my expulsion from society. But there's always the possibility that I'm not the monster I appear to be. Maybe I'm just bored and lonely and I like the pretty colors that fire makes when it eats a new Volkswagen. I like the sound of breaking glass and smacking flesh and my smile never ends when I'm able to set pure chaos in motion with the release of one grocery cart full of chickens into freeway traffic. If you can go through life and make only one person happy, then you're doing something right. If that one person just happens to yourself, then, well, lucky you my friend. Lucky you.
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