Tuesday, April 25, 2006

It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world

So, let’s say I’m a guy. (So far, so good) And let’s say I have little to no command of the English language (again, so far, so good), but I am fluent in Spanish. (Ok, this is where the similarities start to break down) And let’s say I manage to ingest a sufficient quantity of mood/mind altering substances so that I’m no longer in my normal, controlled behavioral patterns. (Hmmm. Maybe it’s best to jump off this band wagon before it rolls over me)

Now, just for the sake of speculation, let’s say I wander over to a neighbor’s house where I break in by smashing a window and crawling through. 911 is called. I produce a knife, though whether I had it with me when I broke in or whether I picked it up in the kitchen is not really clear. Not content to open the door and simply walk out, I break another window to make my exit. Extra style points are earned.

Somewhere along the line, though I can’t imagine where or how, I’ve manage to cut myself. So, I sit down with my knife on the front steps of my neighbor’s house to think things over. For civility's sake, we’ll forgo any speculation on whether or not I’ve managed to retain my pants. Oh, what the heck…I haven’t. Is that so wrong? Hater.

The police arrive and begin demanding in English and Spanish that I put down the knife. Instead, I decide to walk towards the police, showing them the pointy end of my knife. I fall, but I continue to crawl towards the police while waving the knife about. It’s a good thing I’m not drunk or high or both, because I think I’d really look like an idiot. Oh, wait. I am. I am an idiot. I am an idiot with a knife.

The police, instead of just shooting me for being an idiot with a knife (too much paperwork involved after the fact to make it worth their while), attempt to taser me, but miss. Since I’m still holding the knife, and I’m still an idiot, I continue moving towards the police. Granted, I’m on my hands and knees, but for some reason the police still feel threatened by my swinging knife. Thinking that it would be A Very Good Thing if, perhaps, I was not holding a knife, they taser me again, this time with success. I drop the knife, though I still manage to retain my idiot status, and I continue to struggle and resist while they put the handcuffs on me.

Paramedics are called to treat my cuts and as they are working on me, my heart stops and I die.

Now, the question must be asked: who is logically at fault for my death?

To which, there can only be one right answer.

The police.


At least that’s what my family claims, though if I were the police, I’d blame the neighbor’s. After all, it’s their fault the police were even there.

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