The Break-In

Check this article out if you have a chance. It’s another one about Michael Vick but this one centers on race in Atlanta. One sentence that got me was “Certainly, some of white Atlanta supports Vick, too, though arguably because they are Falcons fans.” This disturbs me. Sure, I can bash Vick on the website all I want, and when I do I’m usually really loaded drinking vodka and lemonade on the deck. He’s still innocent. I might portray him as being guilty, and he might be (99%) guilty, but he hasn’t gone to trial yet so he’s still innocent. It doesn’t make a difference if he’s white or black. Well, maybe it does. The whites don’t have “homies” to hang out with. Let’s face it: whites are just not that cool.

You know, sometimes when I try to write something that is anti-racist and all it takes is one or two bad jokes to make it totally racist. God I’m funny.

So, when whitey runs his dog fighting operation out of his Virginia home, he doesn’t have homies that will turn on him and cough up a testimony. This is all a bunch of crap. This is not about race, it’s about dog fighting. Like Brett Favre wouldn’t be plastered all over the media if he was charged with something like this. And you know, the Packers got Favre from the Falcons. Maybe he was in on the dog fighting too. He is from the down south. Hmmm…

You gotta love jokes about blacks, whites, Asians (slopes), purples, hot Latina whores, and old women with floppy vaginas. That’s what makes America great; we have quite the sampling to make jokes about.

Just like the unconvicted (not actually a word but it should be) Michael Vick, I too am a law breaking citizen of the United States. That’s right, I’m a rebel. Come and get me.

Ok, I didn’t actually break any laws today, but I did break into something. Leaving my house for work this morning in a bit of a hurry (due to five hits on the snooze button), I forgot my keys. It wasn’t one of those leave the house, put your shit in your car, sit in the driver’s seat and look for your keys kind of things. No, it was a close the back door to your house, hear the lock click, and then realize you don’t have your keys on you. Yeah, pretty much sucked.

I usually keep my bedroom window open. Because I’m a cheap bastard and don’t like to turn the air conditioning on, I keep the window open to get some air flow in the house. At first I tried to get that little rubber thing out that holds in the screen window. If I had a key on me I could have pried it out but of course, I didn’t have a key on me. I tried a piece of bark but that didn’t work. Then I noticed there was a bit of play in the frame with the screen window. One shift up, one shift left, and a tug at the right was all it took to pop the window off. (If you want to rob my house it’s pretty fucking easy, I just described the whole operation. There ain’t shit in my house worth stealing. Seriously, maybe my couch might be worth something, and if you’re a sexaholic I have a boat load of condoms and porn DVDs, but other than that, I gots pretty much nothin. Oh, and $10 vodka. I’ll be pissed if you take that, fucker.) Window off, I was halfway in, right? I popped the 20” box fan out of the window and my path was clear. I managed to get a chair from the deck, steadied it by the side of the house, and got the upper half of my body through the window. The only problem with the window is that it’s broken. It won’t stay up/open by itself. It needs something to hold it up. With the upper half of my body through it was my lower back/butt that was holding the window up. No big deal. No, it wasn’t a big deal till the window locked down on my knees and left me in pain and agony. And I still had to get my size 13 shoes through there. I wiggled my way through, somehow got my feet in, and fell onto my bed, panting like an out of shape 30 yr-old who just climbed through his bedroom window. Wait… I was both relieved and still astonished of what I had just done. Hell, I didn’t even care about the dirty footprints I left in the white-turned-blue carpeting (Renter’s handiwork at painting). I was in. Like I was in the “in” crowd in high school which consisted of math geeks, weekend jocks, and virgin girls. Yeah, those were the days.

And they say black guys commit the most break-ins. They ain’t got nothin on me.

Editor’s note: no black men were injured or harmed during the writing of this post. However, if you are a black/white/hispanic female, I just gave you the instructions to get into my room, into my bed, and into my heart. However, unlike the black men, you might suffer minor injuries. My knowledge of the female anatomy below the waist was forgotten on the night I conqured the eight pitcher barrier. Yeah, eight pitchers, or 384 ounces, 32 beers. I'd tell you more about it but, well, I just can't remember. Anyway ladies, I’ll be waiting…