This was the second piece I wrote for my humor writing class.
The Drug Dealer Stole My Hat
I live in the ghetto. I’ve got abandoned houses and lots next to me, random fires next to broken down vans that happen to be permanently parked in front of my car, and crack hos coming to the door at 2am asking if the lady of the house is home. Actually, since my girlfriend and I were in the middle of some gender reversal roleplay, her query led to quite a deal of confusion. On top of all this, though, there are the omnipresent drug dealers on the corner of my block. This hasn’t been a problem so far. They sling rock, and I sling comics on eBay, so it’s not exactly like we’ve got the same market demographic. Yesterday, however, the peace was broken by the firing of an opening shot by one of the dealers. Luckily it was not a bullet as one might expect. No, instead the fucker went out and bought the same hat as me. In the immortal words of that kid on the episode of South Park where they get served, “It’s on.”
When I first discovered his attack on my personage, I began to wonder what could have prompted him to commit such a heinous atrocity. After all, in some countries, stealing a man’s hat is punishable by decapitation. Why my hat? I mean, it’s a glaringly orange Houston Astros hat. He’s a Philly drug dealer. I bought it because I have a fetish level of favoritism for the color orange. I also like to pretend that the “H” on the hat stands for my last name and not for Houston. Why would the drug dealer, who from henceforth shall be known as “that hat stealing bastard,” (or maybe “Jeff,” because that’s his name), acquire it? It can only be for nefarious purposes. Maybe even ominous ones too. Here are my theories. I have also calculated the likelihood of each one with the utmost scientific precision.
Theory the first: Jeff arbitrarily saw the hat in a store and thought it looked cool. Now, people tell me that I’ve got the ugliest hat they’ve ever seen. I usually counter with the clever rejoinder that their face is the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen. Oooo, BURN! Ha ha ha, I am witty. So why would Jeff purchase such a universally reviled hat? Perhaps he is as colorblind as I am? A possible option, but due to the lack of genetic predisposition of colorblindness among drug dealers, this is doubtful. Likelihood of theory being correct: 8.59%.
Theory the second: He admires my taste in fashion. It would make sense after all. Those fuckers in GQ ain’t got shit on me. I am one smooth individual. Who wouldn’t want to dress like me? This theory can be confirmed or denied by watching Jeff and seeing if he soon picks up a pair of my fashionable running shoes. There really aren’t any holes in this idea. All the pieces fit perfectly. The only real point against it is that it just doesn’t seem quite sinister enough. If Jeff does indeed have a malevolent plan in mind, and I know that shifty-eyed bastard does, then merely copying my suave style just doesn’t strike the right note of terror. Likelihood of theory being correct: 24.931%.
Theory the third: Jeff is setting me up as a patsy for when he gets busted by the fuzz. This one is striking me as highly likely, especially since the cops have already been sniffing around the block for the past few weeks. The stench of bacon has become almost unbearable. And I fucking love bacon, so that’s saying something. And that something is there are lots of cops around. But by purchasing my hat, Jeff has given himself an ingenious alibi for the next time the po-lice come calling. When witnesses say that the dealer was wearing an orange hat, BAM! Jeff points the cops in my direction. Before I know it, they are kicking in my door and looking a bit too closely at the oregano and powdered sugar on my spice rack. Luckily for me, they don’t realize that my class notes are composed entirely on sheets of acid (Go ahead, give it a lick!). Likelihood of theory being correct: 79.3214%.
Theory the fourth: Much akin to Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, Jeff is from a time in the future where humanity has flourished and prospered, and I am worshipped like unto a god. Clearly, this is the most viable of all the theories, with a predicted likelihood of 98.93214690888887%. After all, I am pretty awesome, and it is quite evident to me that such a future will inevitably come to pass. If this is the case, why then, has Jeff come back? To deliver a warning perhaps? Or, more likely, is he from some rebel fringe faction, and he has come back for my assassination, thereby preventing the utopia I will bring about? Something must be done to safeguard my person and ensure that mankind reaches its true potential under my tutelage. Something, but what?
The only feasible course of action is to lure him into a trap and question him. What can I use for bait? What would a society based on my likes and dislikes find irresistibly attractive? Guitar Hero? Comic books? Sex with my girlfriend? Guitar Hero II? No no, none of these will do. Only the blissful allure of the sweet vocalizations of Canadian rock sensation Barenaked Ladies could possibly succeed. So tomorrow night I will begin playing their discography on a loop. Jeff was probably chosen for his high willpower, but I will break him.
For the good of humanity.