Sometimes I ponder trying my hand at being a criminal mastermind. Like if I really stopped to think about it, couldn't I pull off a really great heist? The reason most criminals get caught is probably lack of planning. For instance, how many people just commit a robbery instead of a heist? The moment it becomes a heist, you've really elevated the whole scene. It's like Crunch Berries in your Cap'n Crunch -- that stuff was just half a bowl of manky sugar shit previously, and now it's a goddamn meal. But then I read about dummies like these people, and I think maybe I'll just start getting stupider as I commit my crimes and it'll be hopeless.
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Let's roleplay (for you Aussie and/or Kiwi ladies, you keep what you're thinking under your hat and we'll chat later on Twitter. I'll get my schoolgirl uniform ready). I want you to pretend you're underage and wanting to get drunk. You're a bit of a shady troublemaker, not above committing crimes, and you're also desperately, hopelessly stupid. Like if a scientist was looking at your brain, he might call in a colleague just so other people could marvel at how dumb you are. So it goes without saying that you're also at Applebee's. Now, how do you get a drink?
If you answered use a stolen ID, you're still not thinking dumb enough. No scientist is marveling at how misshapen and useless your lobes are. No, what you meant to say is use an ID stolen from the waitress who is currently serving you. Yes, that's quite stupid.
This circus of buffoonery occurred in Lakewood, Colorado, when a waitress lost her ID, only to have it turn up again two weeks later when a customer came into the Applebee's where she worked and handed it right to her while ordering drinks. The waitress acted quickly, not even wiping the drool off of the card, and just handed it back to the exceptionally shitty identity thief before going to call the cops.
Some people seem to be so lucky in life that you'd swear their asses were packed with horseshoes. These are the kinds of people who win the lottery twice. Some people, conversely, never seem to catch a break. These guys get a new job, then break both legs on the first day. And then there are people like John Fletcher, who spent 23 out of 24 years in prison back in the 1950s and '60s as a result of committing over 100 thefts. A hundred thefts that netted him about $150 worth of loot in total.
Fletcher's final crime spree saw him rifling through three schools only six days after getting out of prison and stealing a whopping $3.60. I've walked through schools and accidentally stolen more money than that. There's more money than that in my couch right now.
Taking pity on the world's biggest sucker, a judge gave him probation and allowed him to try to take up work as a tailor, something he'd picked up during his remarkably long previous stay in jail.
If you had to make a list of things worth stealing, way down on the bottom of that list, around Susan Boyle's panties, you'd also find a LoJack. You know, a GPS tracking device that they slap on Lohans every now and then? And if you were also listing why it's a bad idea to steal these things, you might point out that the only reason those monitors exist is to track the movements of criminals, meaning if you have it in your possession, you are being monitored by law enforcement. So it must have been after a few cans of Duster in his system that a 40-year-old man in Wisconsin spied one on someone's porch and then sticky-fingered it back to his own home.
The monitor was originally owned by someone on house arrest. She still had the ankle bracelet on, but the stolen device was sort of the central hub, the tether, if you will, that kept her grounded to her house. It stays put and she stays put. If it leaves, well, satellites track it where it goes because it's not supposed to leave.
Only two options make sense in this scenario: The thief either didn't know what he was stealing or he did. If he did, then he probably eats a lot of lead paint, because stealing something that tells police where you are is a terrible idea. If he didn't, then what kind of compulsive kleptomaniac is this man that he sees just a random device on someone's porch and decides "That thing is gonna be mines"?
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Derrick Mosley is probably not all that bright. Like, have you ever had a cat and watched it chasing something so intently that it just ran headfirst into a wall? Imagine that moment when the cat just bounces off the wall being encapsulated inside a man. That man may very well be Derrick Mosley.
In need of some cash but lacking the brainpower to fathom a way to get it that didn't involve smashing stuff, Mosley took his baseball bat from the mantel and headed out into the world to seek his fortune. Would he pan for gold? Invent a newer, better dildo? Of course not. He would rob a store. A gun store.
As Babe Ruth rained down holy hell on a display case of unloaded guns at the store, the shopkeeper, who was packing a fully loaded one, put Mosley in his place in a way only an angry man with a lethal weapon facing down a moron with a stick can. When police arrived, Mosley was face down in some broken glass with a gun pointed at him, because obviously he was.