Everyone makes mistakes.
Some people make mistakes that are also crimes. A lot of people make mistakes that are also crimes and get caught. A few people make mistakes that are also crimes, get caught and try to make an excuse. Typically a bad one.
One man made a mistake that was also a crime, got caught, and tried to make an excuse that was so staggeringly bad, so unbelievably, knee-bucklingly, pluck-my-bucket-and-call-me-Franco bad that it actually defies objective criticism. It’s so bad it shrugs off its own badness.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7RE1e_DF_D8
The man, henceforth known as St. Larceny, was apparently attempting to pick the lock of his neighbour’s apartment, presumably in search of some cargo shorts and maybe the new Disturbed album. Unfortunately for St. Larceny, his neighbour was watching through the peep hole.
The neighbour films St. Larceny fiddling with the lock for a few seconds, before bursting through the door to confront the completely innocent man. St. Larceny is surprised, almost as though he was caught in the middle of something he shouldn’t be doing. Immediately, he protests: “Dude, I wasn’t doing anything, I promise!”
This is the first of 18 separate dudes with which St. Larceny will defend himself, joining the great pantheon of blokes caught bang to rights attempting to justify their shit, including: “Dude, I did not have sexual relations with that woman” and “We found the weapons of mass destruction, dude. We found biological laboratories, I swear to God!”
Innocence: A Portrait Of
But St. Larceny is just getting warmed up. The neighbour slaps him around a bit, and my, St Larceny’s head is perfect for slapping – a big, round, meaty egg, beautifully sonorous and exquisitely pitched. The sound of slapping St. Larceny’s head is like christening a fine ham, or the salty spank on a bad businessman’s bottom, courtesy of the £150 p/h Madame Electra.
St. Larceny begs his neighbour to stop, stretching the u in ‘dude’ as far as it will go. The neighbour relents, just long enough for St. Larceny to explain himself, thereby earning his title as Patron Saint of Bad Excuses. It’s a real bobby-dazzler, folks. Ready? Here it is:
“I was trying to fuckin’ figure out how to get in my door. My door’s fucked up. I was trying fuckin’ have another door to do it on.”
No further questions, Your Honour. Any reasonable person can see that the defendant was struggling to open his own – quote – “fucked up” door, and required another door to – quote – “do it on”. All of us here, regardless of gender, race and class, all of us have struggled with fucked up doors in the past and oh, if only we had another door with which to – quote – “fuckin’ figure out how to get in”.
An artist’s impression of St. Larceny’s fucked up door
You see, doors are incredibly tricky to master. A complex mechanical riddle; an enigma encased in wood, PVC and sometimes glass if you’re really fancy, solvable only by putting the correct key in the correct lock. Think about it, there are millions of keys and millions of locks – the odds of you having the corresponding key and lock are astronomical, especially if the door you wish to enter is, as St. Larceny earnestly points out, “fucked up”.
His neighbour is less sympathetic, and continues to smack St. Larceny about the head, now presumably for the sweet music it makes rather than in anger. Again, St. Larceny denies any wrongdoing:
“Dude, my door’s fucked up, remember? I was trying to fuckin’ get another door to fuckin’ see how I could do it, man.”
How could his neighbour forget that St. Larceny’s door was so upwardly fucked? As his neighbour he must have passed St. Larceny’s fucked-up door many times, each time noting and pitying its sorry state of upkeep. It simply doesn’t wash, folks. St. Larceny is not a petty criminal, he’s a martyr for everyone who looks like they did something bad but actually didn’t do anything at all, honestly!
No one knows the fate of St. Larceny, but his legacy as Patron Saint of Bad Excuses will live on. An inspiration to everyone who says they’ll do things and then don’t do them, to everyone found with their trousers round their ankles, to everyone who makes a mistake that is also a crime and gets caught.
So remember, next time you try to walk out of a restaurant without paying, if anyone tries to stop you, simply bellow forth: “Dude, I was fuckin’ trying to eat my lasagne, I swear to God! My lasagne’s fucked up, remember? I was trying to fuckin’ get another lasagne to see how to fuckin’ do it on mine. Dude. Duuuuuuuude!”
