reckless abandon

the rising sun found me sitting alone in the master bedroom of my country manse holding my head in my hands, a dead prostitute sprawled on my bathroom floor. not knowing what to do, i stood and began to pace. obviously i needed some sort of alibi: there is no prison safe enough for a man as handsome as myself. my mind began to race, concoting and rejecting wild stories to tell the police when the inevitable questions began.

after what seemed like hours, my frenzied imagination finally seized upon one plausible enough to work: i would tell them i was at the teenagers show!

but i knew a good story would not be enough. i'd need details. i checked on the girl in the bathroom one more time, still dead. think craig, think.

they'd probably ask general questions about the show, like what time it started and how big the crowd was. i'd have to tell them something that sounded plausible.

the show was scheduled for 10, so i decided it would be safe to say they started at 11 because french people are rude and don't care about other people's time. that sounded pretty good, i knew if i were a cop i'd believe that. and if they asked me about how many people were there i'd have to tell them that the crowd was pretty big, but nowhere near capacity, which is probably for the best, because there is nothing worse than a room packed with people you don't know.

believing this to be a workable solution, i stopped worriedly pacing. the whole thing was just an accident, nothing more than a simple misunderstanding, really. a misunderstanding i would be able to clear up as soon as the cops arrived and i told them my story.


unfortunately, things didn't go exactly as planned. i met with them in my large rose garden, my face a picture of shock and innocence, but the cops who questioned me asked a lot of specific questions i hadn't prepared for. i told them that the new song (i even made up a name - streets of paris or something lame like that) was pretty boring but homecoming was still badass and i would have given them all high fives if it were a true story. they pressed me further and i told them that this time only two girls went on stage, but they both seemed to know most of the words which was better in some ways but far less awesome in others. gaining confidence, i told the officers that the teenagers' problem was that there weren't enough beautiful women on stage. they need more attractive session musicians and they also need to sing blink182 style pop punk ballads about making out with girls at parties or pretending not to be high when your parents come into your room because that is what i think of when i hear the name "the teenagers."

things seemed to be going well until i was asked about their clothes. the cops wanted to know if they were better dressed than last time. i began to sweat. was this a trick question? the band had only been touring north america for 3 months, do they still look like the drama team from my highschool? did that one guy with the tape holding his shoes together get new shoes? i had no idea. my story was ripped to pieces, and i slumped down to my knees and stained the floor of my gazebo with tears while confessing the entire thing.

i guess the cops took pity on me or i was able to explain my position very reasonably, because after i had recovered my composure, i was told i was free to go, but warned never to do it again. i can honestly say that this weekend i learned a very valuable lesson about honesty and french people. also, it turns out they were better dressed than last time.