Tag Archives: Crime

This Week in Perverted Home Buyers

Pervert Poster

Image by Nikita Kashner via Flickr

There comes a time in everyone’s life where the balusters and Nouveau decor of a showhome are just too sexy to resist. Before you judge, ask yourself “could I control my urges if I was surrounded by marble countertops?”

 Well, those urges overcame a Calgary man several weeks ago in a story I find way too funny not to pass on. The police are looking for the guy and I can’t help but picture the wanted poster.

A man who committed an indecent act at a New Brighton show home is wanted by Calgary police.

If I had any foresight I would have stopped reading there. But curiosity got the best of me. What did they mean by “indecent”? Did he flash a passing city bus from the upstairs washroom? Did he pull a Larry David and accidentally splash a Jesus picture?

Police say he entered the show home by himself and was alone for several minutes in the main foyer. He then left quickly while apparently talking on his cellphone.

When the sales worker entered the home, she discovered he had committed the indecent act while in the house and police were called.

Oh. I see. He did in the faux kitchen what anti-gay Pastors do in men’s rooms. Why do some people need an audience for doing…”that”? It’s like the people who audition for American Idol. They know it’s a bad idea – that it’s borderline offensive and possibly criminal – but can’t resist in the end.

“They seized biological material suitable for DNA analysis and it has been sent away for analysis,”

If the cop forced to collect the “sample” didn’t quit, then I will take back everything bad I say about the police. Yeah, I’m lying. I still think they’re domestic terrorists and they suck at their jobs.

Yet,  I’m impressed/saddened that someone agreed to collect another man’s discarded “DNA” from the wall.

I once worked at a gas station off 16th Avenue during my late teens. I lasted around four hours before quitting for being asked to clean the bathroom. Every man has an instinctual desire to destroy public bathrooms. Have you ever seen a gas station bathroom? Within walking distance of Bowness, no less? I don’t know where this urge comes from but I can’t remember the last washroom I’ve gone into where the paper towel dispenser hasn’t been superkicked off the wall or found a sanguine wound dressing from a back alley stabbing.

If you live in the suburbs, be on the look out for a police stakeout in a neighbourhood near you.

Letter To My Victim

 

Dear Woman I Scared in the +15,

 

It is not your fault you were taught a swift and brutal rape will surely follow once a woman gets within 20 feet of a black man. Nevertheless, I take exception to the way you recoiled when I got too close to you. Let us forget that my attire was more suited to serving hors d’oeuvres at a wedding reception than wrestling middle-aged women to the carpet; I also wore my ID card – complete with my full name, handsome photo and name and address of my place of employment – around my neck. Granted, it can be disconcerting to come upon a man of any colour with the top quarter of his buttocks exposed (I had accidentally put on my underwear backwards this morning) and an open fly (busted running for the train). However, I am concerned you assumed you are of suitable raping stock. Supposing gelatinous booties in grey pantsuits turn me on to such a degree I would mount you in front of a shoeshine kiosk, do you really think my raping standards are so low as to include you? Let us look at the scorecard.

 

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The Saddest Weekend Known to Man

 

HEY BUDDY, WHAT’S THE DEAL WITH THE PATHETIC WEEKEND YOU JUST SPENT?

 

It wasn’t pathetic at all. Sure, I remained sober and, for educational purpose and educational purpose alone, feverishly browsed the Craigslist escort ads but the weekend was, as a whole, productive. Not only did I start a new screenplay and catch up on sleep, I also hit the gym twice.

 

 

 

YA, NOT IMPRESSED. EVERY NARCISSISTIC HIPSTER WITH A LAPTOP HAS WRITTEN A SCREENPLAY.

 

Yes, and although I can comfortably lay claim to most narcissistic black man in the country, my script is more than just a vanity project to be woven into pickup lines at Vinyl. You see, the story is a spoof on the formulaic movie mystery studios seem intent on unleashing upon unsuspecting audiences every winter. The main character –

 

WHOA WHOA WHOA. NOBODY CARES ABOUT THE SCREENPLAY. LET’S HEAR ABOUT THE ESCORTS.

 

They were at turns old, flabby and as used up as catchers mitt unearthed after a half century floating in a New York sewer. Though I applaud the escorts for their efforts to stiffen my cock with overflowing tits and submissive poses, their come-hither stares were belied by the profound sadness of a sexual abuse victim. No, I am not above playing therapist in order to secure a discount on services rendered, but I was not in the mood to wipe the post-coital tears of Red Deer runaway.

 

STOP LYING. YOU CALLED ONE DIDN’T YOU?

 

I will admit the prices (ranging from $80 to $300) were so reasonable I had all but dialed six digits before common sense – and my bruised and battered pride’s 3rd act resurgence – stayed my finger.

 

SADLY, I THINK YOUR CRAIGSLIST BROWSING WAS THE WEEK’S HIGHLIGHT.

 

You’re probably right.

 

LET’S GO OVER THE REST OF IT SHALL WE?

 

Get it over with.

 

HOURS SPENT TEACHING YOUR DOG TO DANCE?

 

Two and a half

 

SONG TO WHICH HE DANCES TO?

 

A remixed Speed Racer theme

 

DOG’S INTEREST LEVEL IN SAID DANCING PROJECT?

 

Zero, he was far too distracted by the caramel popcorn puff that had rolled under the couch.

 

TIMES YOU THREATENED TO ABANDON HIM AT THE CITY DUMP IN FRUSTRATION?

 

Four.

 

HOURS SPENT HAVING SEX?

 

Zero.

 

HOURS SPENT THINKING ABOUT SEX?

 

72.

 

TIMES YOU CHANGED UNDERWEAR?

 

1

 

TIMES SHOWERED?

 

1

 

OH BOY

 

Ya, I know. Something’s got to give. In my defense, temperatures dropped to levels no black man should ever have to endure. Social life be damned, I will remain underneath my duvet eating chicken wings thank you very much. At long last we have found the solution. Not even the lure of fat white women and quarter ounce of weed can lure a black man from his home when the temp dips below minus 20.

 

NUMBER OF WHITE READERS WHO WILL NOW START CLUBBING ON FREEZING DAYS?

 

100%