“I want to be a fucking criminal. I wanted to do crimes. I’m doing a B&E. Boom, that’s the house. That’s the house I’m doing a B&E. Now we get up to the house. There it is right in front of me. My hands are a little clammy and I start walking up that walkway. I’m ready to do it. I’m going right through that front door. I get to that door; I’m three steps away. My heart is racing. One, two, three. And I stop for a second and said, “Wait a minute, I don’t know if I can do this” Then I said “I got it!” POW! And I kicked that fucking door off its hinges. That door flew into the darkness of that home. And I felt fantastic. But here’s what happened. The second my foot connected and that door flew in; I took two steps into that house and I realized I did not want to do a B&E. I just wanted to kick a door in. Then we cheesed it. I’ll tell you guys right now, I didn’t take anything. I should’ve stolen some shit. Not because it’s cool to steal or anything like that. But because of what I did psychologically to that family. They’re going to come home after a long night and see the front door has been kicked in. You know that family, every few months, for years are going to stop and say, “What the fuck did they take? What the fuck did they take from this house?” –Dane Cook
Dear Online Diary,
I normally don’t quote Dane Cook. Trust me. I do a lot of quoting, but Dane Cook is not someone I usually have the need to quote. I have never felt the need to share the super finger gag with anyone or to explain my burger king experiences through his eyes. However, this quote is the ONLY thing I thought of the day I came home and my house had been broken into.
A few weeks ago, I drove my little piece of crap home from a long, but stress free day from work. I was looking forward to going inside, turning on the fan, and passing out on my couch for a quick 2-hour power nap.
This nap was not to be. I pulled up in my driveway and I can see the screen on my front window leaning on my porch and my window wide open. I immediately should have gotten on the phone and called the police. I should’ve waited by my door, then let a cop go into my house and walk around, gun ablazin’, and making sure no one was there. Then he would write a little report, and I would thank him profusely and give him some cookies for his efforts. He would probably tell me to have a good night, be safe, then leave me bitter for calling me “ma’am”.
But no, I didn’t do that. My window was wide open and I had a newly fixed cat inside who didn’t know where the fuck he was yet. He had only been at my house 2 days. So I walked up the stairs to my house. I looked inside the window. I didn’t see anything. My TV was still there. I didn’t hear anything. I checked my locks. Nothing had been opened-the deadbolt was still intact. I somehow doubt anyone would take anything that would fit through the window. I also doubted that if they used the front door, they would have dead bolted it for courtesy sake and go back out through the window. So I walked in.
I walked to my kitchen. I grabbed the biggest, most intimidating knife I own. Now I was mad at myself for never sharpening my knives. But I assumed if I needed to plunge it into someone’s midsection, even a semi-dull blade would work. I’ve never actually stabbed anyone, but I once saw a dude on TV with a pencil sticking through his hand do to making eye contact with a mentally unstable classmate. I’m no knifeologist, but I think a dull knife is still sharper than a pencil. Feeling secure in my abilities to stab someone if I needed to, I walked through my entire house with that knife in front of me. No one was there. No one was in the closet. No one in the shower. No one under the sink (you never know.) Nothing missing. My laptop was still on my bed. My jewelry box is not full of precious rubies or anything, but nothing was missing from that either. No missing TV’s or stereos. No missing panties (you never know about that one either). Nothing missing. Nothing moved. No indication of scrounging through drawers of dressers. Cat sleeping peacefully on the bed. A perfectly Zen environment, all around.
I started seriously wondering who the fuck goes through all this trouble and doesn’t steal shit? Who goes through the motions leading to a very probable arrest for nothing? You never know, the cop that catches you might be really fucking pissed he’s going to lose his job because the governor cant balance the budget. His wife might be leaving him for someone in the Sheriff’s department, and he noticed he’s starting to go bald. This is not a cop to fuck with. He knows you’re already in trouble, why not riddle you, the perpetrator, with some bullet holes and blow off some steam? It’s easier than going to the gym, and lets face it, it’s been a few years since the treadmills seen any action. Do you really want this angry, chubby, balding, lonely cop to come in and find you? The answer is no. If I were going to break into someone’s place, this would be at the top of my list of worries.
Next to that would be the possibility that someone was home. That someone is an agoraphobic member of the NRA and an itchy trigger finger and a habit of skipping his meds. Sure, he seems ok to the neighbors. Very quiet, by all accounts and doesn’t bother anyone. But what you don’t know is that his therapist is actively trying to find a balance of Lithium and Thorazine that makes this man stop planning to secede from the union. Sure, he has an entire arsenal in his spare room, but it’s only to be prepared when the rest of the militia sets plans in motion and needs his help. Who wants to break into the house of that guy??? Not me!
That’s really the only reason why I have a boring day job and never started a meth habit. I like to avoid these kinds of situations. I may be a pussy for that, but I’m a pussy with no bullet holes in her anatomy.
I walked back to my living room and proceeded to close and lock the window. I shoved the lock up extra hard, as if stripping the locks would make it more impossible next time. Then I put the screen back on. The screen was perfectly intact and unbent. Whoever this asshole was, he was a considerate and agile one. Then I closed my front door and sat down to catch my breath and let my aforementioned heart return to its proper cavity.
I calmed down after that. It took a few minutes and a Guinness, but I did achieve some state of calm. But after my body stopped releasing adrenaline and my hands weren’t shaking like Katherine Hepburn, my brain went into full throttle “WHY?” mode.
I only came up with one analytically sound conclusion: this motherfucker was a huge fan of Dane Cook. This was an awkward 16-year-old male who had not yet grown into his features-most likely oversized feet and/or ears. He is still riddled with acne and can’t seem to find a hairstyle that doesn’t accentuate his many cowlicks. He started listening to Dane Cook because he works at Burger King, and Dane worked at Burger King. Surely, this adolescent had some hope of becoming rich, famous, and socially acceptable as well! He doesn’t have any real friends, which left him with LOTS of time to listen to Dane’s albums over and over again, chuckling to himself while playing WOW online with a girl in Virginia who is definitely REALLY hot in person. He knows she’s super hot; because she told him she was “super hot lolz”. She won’t post pictures, but her avatar says it all. Busty and tall, with a tiny waist and big, blue eyes. She wouldn’t lie about that kind of thing. Her name is WOWgurl198 and someday, he will totally go visit her.
As our socially rejected teen got less acquainted with society and more invested in WOWgurl198 and Dane Cook, he decided he would totally break into someone’s house just like Dane did. No harm done. He wasn’t going to steal anything, so it was cool. And he would have a story for WOWgurl198 to show that he was a badass motherfucker. She would be so impressed; she would totally let him touch those huge boobies of hers. He would have street cred, even though he would NEVER talk to anyone on the actual street (those people are scary!). He would definitely grow some hair on his nuts, so that’s a huge bonus.
After no planning at all, this bastard headed into my neighborhood. He found my place. Since I live in a sea of condos, I have no idea how he decided to go to the one in the middle with nothing to cover up what he was doing. Perhaps he sensed the ambiance was excellent inside? Perhaps he was tired of walking in his undersized converse and didn’t make it to his actual target? Whatever it was, he settled and walked up my stairs. Problem one: I have a security door. It’s made of metal. And it’s locked. Even if this skinny bastard could muster the strength to kick down my real door, the chances of making it through the security door was nearly impossible without the assistance of angel dust and 20 extra pounds of muscle.
So he went for the window. He got the screen off, which he learned to do in his own house when he wanted to sneak out. He didn’t have anywhere to go, but it was still super awesome to sneak out in spite of THE MAN and just chill in his backyard for a while. Then he somehow got the window open. I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave it unlocked, only because I’m pretty sure I’m not an idiot, so I don’t know what happened there. Magic powers? Youtube instructional video? The world will never know. But he did.
Then something happened. He freaked. He didn’t even take the Dane Cook mandated two steps into the house before realizing he was really about to piss himself. He could hear cars driving down the street. My cat let out a lion-like roar. my neighbors annoying chihuahua started barking. Or there was no environmental element at all. He just realized he was a pathetically inept, skinny, suburban 16 year old who didn’t have any business here. But what would happen now? Well, WOWgurl198 didn’t need to know, right? She lived in Virginia. She would still probably let him touch her boobies someday. She didn’t need to know he never actually got in. the condo. He got far enough, right? Even the person living there would assume he got in. He would just leave everything open. Yeah, that was it. Dane Cook sure as hell wouldn’t know. That bastard still hadn’t written back to any of the letters with meticulously drawn and anatomically corrent super fingers all over it. And since he went this far, he might even have a chance at growing some of that much needed ball hair. The adrenaline alone should be worth a few, right?
And that was that. He left, feeling simultaneously manly and like an oversized invertebrate. But the crappy, spineless feelings would pass…. especially once he touched those boobies.
Leaving only me to come home and deduce this entire scenario’s absolute probability. With a few weeks of contemplation under my belt, I am now absolutely certain this is what happened. Leaving me only one thing to say:
FUCK YOU, DANE COOK!
