The Alibi
It’s been 29 years now. That was the last New Year’s Eve that I was awake for. Marriage, kids, and job made me too tired to whoop it up and bring in a new year of marriage, kids and job. Plus you look like a moron celebrating another year of marriage, kids and job. I raise my glass of bubbly. “Honey, let’s toast another year of imprisonment.” We clink glasses. “Here’s looking to another 25 to life. You’re the BCF,” That’s the social media abbreviation for “best cellmate forever” to readers still single and lucky enough to be free out there.
So, I was surprised to read in the Indy about vandals, who broke into the high school on New Year’s Eve. The break in occurred around 11:56. I was asleep at the time. That’s my alibi. My wife refuses to corroborate this alibi. Instead, she told police I walk past the high school every day and yell, “School sucks.” The police got interested real fast and wanted to know more about my daily activities. My wife was happy to oblige. “Officer, has anyone ever told you that you look like Brad Pitt? You really do. Can I see your handcuffs?”
The officer shook his head no and gave my wife the hand roll gesture to get back on track. “Okay. Fine. My husband walks every day, real slow. You can hardly call it a workout. But he goes on and on about it like he’s doing a triathlon. He told me ad nauseam about being a kid and his hero was Bruce Jenner and how he wanted to be just like Bruce and get his mug on a box of Wheaties, the breakfast of champions. But now that Bruce is Caitlyn, my husband swears the most important meal of the day is lunch and he wants to be just like Jared. He’s behind on current events. So, I’m encouraging him to embrace the midnight snack instead as the most important meal of the day and Dagwood Bumstead as his hero. Cartoons are more hero reliable than real people, don’t you think?”
The officer rolls his eyes heavenward and pleads with my wife to speed up her statement or he’ll arrest her on obstruction charges. My wife likes that Brad Pitt is playing the heavy. She’s encouraged to stay her course and put me away forever.
“My husband is a juvenile delinquent. He’s definitely your culprit. He walks through town and yells at Number 1 firehouse, “Turn up the sirens. I still have 10% hearing left and my wife’s taking advantage of it. Show mercy. Blowout my last eardrum.” Then he continues his walk past Pyne Castle and screams, “Hey Pyne. You’re a two bit piano player salesman, who just got lucky and struck black gold. And you’re so bad on the piano that the piano had to play itself.” Then the mad hatter finishes up the walk with his so-called workout stations. These workout stations are Gina’s and Big Fish. The workout consists of bending the elbow, while exerting no other muscle group.”
The officer nods. “He fits the profile. Do you think we can make him confess?” My wife smiles at Brad and says, “Oh, yes. He admits to knowing the schools inside and out. He tells everyone who will listen that he wants to be the next superintendent. Just match his resume to the graffiti you found on the science lab walls. He’s your man. He’s rotten to the core curriculum and will be at least a change to the same old graffiti and dance.”
Mark tells the Indy that he supports the 3Rs. Reading his rights. Remaining silent. Rigging the jury.
