Let me pose a hypothetical question. Or, more like….a choose your-own-adventure story. The junkie-from-Everett edition.So pretty much, your crippling drug addiction and dead brain cells are going to choose for you, and the only possible ending is being shamed relentlessly on Turtleboy.
This should be fun.
Let’s say that you are this withered epic-level velociratchet from the mean streets of Everett/wherever Diego is selling his blue magic on the low. Your name is Christine Gale, and you look like you live off crackrocks and embalming fluid.
It’s a bright, beautiful and hazy summer morning, and you need a ride. You roll out of whatever gutter you crawled into the night before, dust off the grave dirt from your sunken-in eyeholes, and call yourself up a Masshealth-funded lift to get your daily dose of complimentary government liquid handcuffs. While you’re licking the windows and mopping up the drool on your chin while riding to grab your dose so you can get your busy day of loitering around 7/11 parking lots in between bargain blowie shifts behind the Wendy’s dumpster started, you happen to notice a cell phone sitting on the floor beneath you. It’s not yours. What do you do?
A. Alert the driver and return the phone so that hopefully he can contact his previous fare and give it back?
B. Ignore it and hope he notices it later?
C. Grab it and drop it off at the police station nearest to the street corner you’re working that day?
D. Nothing – you are pretty much catatonic 19 out of the 24 hours of the day.
Whatever you picked – Wrong!
I was just kidding, that was clearly a trick question!
You snatch that bitch up faster than the DCF fairy snatched yo’ babies for reasons totally unrelated to whatever has caused you to perpetually look like a reanimated corpse –
Now do you:
A. Use it to call your boy Z to borrow $10 and a ride to Fall River?
B. Trade it to the nearest skinny white kid in a bulls hat you see for a nickle back of dope?
C. Stash it in your gaping cooze-clutch until you get enough five dollar handjobs done to earn a day’s keep for yourself?
You slither on back with that stolen phone to the basement skankhole-lair you’ve temporarily converted into your Castle Greyskull, Skelawhore;
And you exhale a deep sigh, full of relief and the stale blunt roach you found lodged under your sweaty left tit, confident that you’ve gotten away safely. Neither the cops, nor the rightful owner will ever follow the putrid snail trail you leave in your wake to locate you, your sticky fingers, or the cell phone you happened to have permanently borrowed from an elderly lady with bladder cancer. Nope, they’re definitely not going to do that.
Mainly because there is modern day GPS technology that can track down a lost or stolen device in half the time, with none of the HIV.
You, of course, are too stupid to fully realize or understand this. Your life is a never-ending cycle of short-sighted incompetence and perpetual homeless begging, and you can never see more than an hour ahead, anyway.
Besides, you’re not even capable of stringing together a coherent thought or sentence – not even once.
So you don’t have many reasoning skills to work with here.
In fact, you are such a hopeless ignoramus that you mistakenly refer to the hole in your child’s face where you are supposed to put food but have invariably failed to do so until the State had to take over over……as, inexplicably……
A “Mouth Ass”. Punctuation is so important, but then again, so is integrity, and you’re fresh out of both. So you take a look at yourself and ask, “Do I give a fuck?”
Of course you don’t. You didn’t get this far on intelligence, class and self-awareness. And by this far, of course, I mean “back from the methadone clinic to your sisters basement, with an iphone you lifted off a Masshealth transport van and are currently rifling through like a dirty possum in a garbage bag.”
Fuck it, I’m going to tell you what you do.
You keep your toothless mouth ass shut, you search through that phone you stole from an old lady battling a terrible, progressive illness until you find some sort of financial information you can exploit before throwing that bitch into a mall kiosk, collecting your $60 for a 50-rock of crack and a pack of Maverick Menthol Light 100s. Then you find it – a Fingerhut account, logged in and ready for the taking. So you pull your next brilliant move, and order yourself the best laptop with express shipping that $380.97 can buy. You wisely ship it to your address, which is the same address the phone has been traced to, in your own government name. It’s not like to actual account holder is going to receive an email copy of the receipt or anything.
You don’t know that. All you know is you just got to spend more in five minutes than you’ve been able to collect in welfare for the whole month since those social workers came in and took off with 2/3 of your income!
But at least you’re a brilliant scam artist with great long-term planning skills, a new laptop on the way, and rock-solid, unshakable morals and values. Oh, and a completely realistic understanding of your own merit, valor and worth, too.
You rock, your horrifying wax-museum-looking clamcake!
But, wait a minute…. as you sit there in your sister’s stank tank of a basement, ripping butts and anxiously awaiting the first time you’ll be on the receiving end of an HP and not HPV, this happens:
Your misdeed is discovered! How did they do that? You haven’t left your basement hideout for days, thanks to the apathy that comes with mainlining black tar heroin and the paranoia that’s brought by lifting some stranger’s mail-order catalog credit off a stolen cellphone. What kind of magic is this? Maybe your cellar dwelling really is bugged by the CIA?
Well, fuck it – you’re just going to play dumb. You stole that credit info fair and square,
and they didn’t even offer you an award for returning any of it. It’s just a cellphone at $380, not a two-dollar bill.
Unfortunately for you, the rightful owners knew where to reach Turtleboy. So now here we are, hypothetical (and real) Christine. You’re outed as the slimy, grimy grundlemuffin who stole from a terminally ill little old lady, and now everyone knows about it. You probably should’ve just picked options A-C, but you didn’t, and now everyone knows you’re a scumbag. Tough luck, Scabs the Clown.
You were doing such a good job at hiding it, too.