Today, my girlfriend, Courtney, called me from her store and told me about how some semi-retarded, toothless goonball came in and scammed her out of a Sprint phone (she owns a cell phone store). Armed with a mentally deficient wife and a sweatshirt bearing the slogan, “Jesus beat the devil with a [sic] ugly stick,” said goonball walked out of the store with $313.76 worth of phones and accessories after leaving behind a check so cold it belonged in the morgue.
Ordinarily, Courtney would never accept a check for that big of an amount, but apparently she became anoxic from being too close to goonball’s gaping, crusty maw. Buuut, goonball assured her that he was a preacher and yadda yadda yadda, and of course she took his frostbitten check. Once the deal was done and after her mini-coma, my girl called the customer’s bank and…voila! The account had already been cancelled. Oh, and both the phone number and address on the check were invalid. Surprised? Nah.
Understandably distressed and still feeling the effects of her coma, Courtney obsessed over the incident the rest of the afternoon. She pulled herself together enough to come up with one major stroke of genius, though, and she got goonball’s address and phone number by calling freakin’ 411. ***We interrupt this entry to bring you a scary-ass reminder of how easy it is for pedophiles and wack-jobs to track down your address, phone number, and other essential info from nothing more than your name***
Anyway, Master Detective Chris (that’s me) took off on a supersleuth mission to go get toothless goonball’s license plates and possibly to confront him about the issue. Upon arrival at the thief’s address, I hopped out of my car, quickly ran up alongside the house, and scribbled down license plate numbers from the two cars parked in the driveway. Since I didn’t actually get to see this joker in action (I was thinking he was some shotgun-toting maniac or something), I decided not to confront him directly at that time.
Instead, we ended up calling “ugly stick,” posing as an FBI agent out of Washington, DC. Now, I don’t bring this up to serve as an example of my cleverness – instead, I’m pointing this out to illustrate what an absolute effing moron this doofus was. Needless to say, he bought the FBI bit hook, line, and sinker; and after telling him to hop in his “maroon Camaro or POS Chevy van” and bring us back all the crap he stole, he was completely freaked out. We gave him one option – bring the stuff back to the store or face criminal charges. You see, with retards, you can be the police, the judicial system, and the enforcer all in one fell swoop, so we totally took advantage.
Half an hour after calling him, he showed up at Courtney’s store with the stolen goods in tow. I gave him back the chilly check and breathed a sigh of relief as goonball, his breath, his jacked up teeth (or lack thereof), and his Jesus sweatshirt got the heck outta dodge.
On a hilarious wrap-up note, shortly after the wannabe Thomas Crown left the store, his phone began to ring. The ringtone? Some song that included the lyrics “I’m a slave to Jesus.” Oh, but that’s not even the icing on the cake, my friends. Of course, Courtney, the queen of nosy, answered the phone to see who in the hell would call the toothless wonder. A young woman’s voice could be heard on the other end, and after Courtney questioned her about her identity, she introduced herself as “an internet friend.”
So, let’s do a quick recap. From about 1 total hour of interacting with this loser, we’ve found out that he:
- Has no upper teeth
- Has bad breath
- Is a total hypocrite
- Is a pathological liar
- Is a slipshod scam artist
- Managed to find someone as dumb as he is out there, and then married her. Score one for homogeneous grouping!
- Has hideous credit
- Is a slave to Jesus
- Uses the living crap out of his cell phone
- Is attempting to cheat on his wife thanks to this great vehicle known as the Inter
Ok, back to our story. So Courtney’s on the line with Internet Friend, and she’s like, “Do you know what this guy looks like?” Of course, she didn’t, so we didn’t hesitate to enlighten her. “Oh my god. He’s fat, dumpy, GROSS, and he’s got no upper teeth. This isn’t hockey-mouth we’re talking here – he doesn’t even have a single chomper.” I was about four or five feet away from Courtney at the time, and I could still hear Internet Friend’s jaw drop through the phone’s speaker. Apparently goonball told her that he was a fancy chef (you should see him with those Hot Pockets!!!) and that he was divorced. Uhh, for the record, his thieving, overstuffed mannequin of a wife signed the cold check, and as for the chef part – does McDonald’s refer to its “cooks” as “chefs” now?