Criminals and evildoers the world over: beware! Law abiding citizens: sleep soundly tonight knowing that in your neck-of-the-woods, local criminals (mostly the petty variety like vandals, jaywalkers, and internet pirates) will be taking a healthy dose of justice—justice served with a side-order of spit-talkin’ Dirty Harry style ‘plum mad dog mean’ true grit…I have absolutely no idea what that is even supposed to mean.
Inspired by my recent obsession with Dog the Bounty Hunter, I’ve taken the all-important first step toward becoming a bounty hunter myself. One must prepare mentally for the long road ahead. I’ve committed to things before but, after a brief period of some obsession or another, I usually lose interest in five to seven minutes. I was not about to let this important endeavor, too, become a bona-fide bounty hunter, suffer the same fate. I was in this for the long haul, and I had work to do. I stocked up on water, Twizzlers, and Fun Dip, and sat down for the legally required 45-minute instructional seminar/slide-show entitled, “So you want to be a bounty hunter?”
The first obstacle I would need to overcome was the fact that physically, no matter how hard I sucked in my gut while flexing, I’m just not a very intimidating presence. Me, Mr. Huntin’ that Bounty, comes equipped with all the musculature of a roll of wet paper towels. Anyone who’s ever shaken my hand with even the slightest hint of pressure—after bearing witness to the sobbing and the clutching of my wounded hand—has been known to remark, “Good God…I didn’t even squeeze that hard. He’s like a human Faberge egg” or “I’ve held baby chicks in my hand with more pressure than that!”
Clearly some sort of workout was in order. I chose Zoomba. In retrospect, I shoulda’ picked Tae-Bo or at the very least Pilates. Since me and intense physical activity were clearly NOT on speaking terms, I decided the best defense was a good offense. Why actually “BE” a no nonsense shit-talkin’ bounty hunter, when you can just give off the appearance of one? This also posed a problem for me, because, in addition to not being an intimidating presence, I also have a complete inability to look menacing. No matter how severely I furrow my brow, I still give off the appearance of one searching for his “bounty” …the quicker-picker-upper, er…to wipe the hot sauce from my face after knockin’ down a dozen or so hot wings.
Hey, maybe leather’s the key? So after a trip to the local Harley Davidson store—extremely convenient for ALL of your leather needs—I outfitted myself in a tough looking studded biker’s jacket, a leather pork-pie style cap, and a pair of leather pants. In time these pants would become so pungent with odors, so unspeakable, that I began to question how bikers, completely encased in the skin of dead cattle, could even reproduce at all sitting on a thousand pounds of hot vibrating steel. I came to the conclusion that biker-sperm is probably cultured & incubated by the Harley’s engine. This makes each individual sperm so tough & grizzled that, if you were to gaze at one under a microscope, you could probably see a faint Gregg Allman-style beard on each spermy chin. The pork-pie hat didn’t help either, as it made me look like a fat gay 60’s supermodel Twiggy on her way to Sturgis…that is, if you even want that image burned permanently into your mind. Don’t go there, really. I’m trying to help you out here.
Weapon-wise, I was ill-prepared as well. The only things I own that could come close to being useful in a combat situation with a bail-jumper are a toy sheriff badge, a Walther P-38 (it’s actually the original Megatron) and a container of ground-pepper (to use as mace). I don’t tan well, so I can’t reach the necessary grizzled sun-baked look either, and my hair can only be described as “conservative” at best. Even with all the hair style products in the world, I could not pull off the necessary sweaty pompadour cascade that seems to tell society, “I know you think this hair is hideous, but I simply can’t find the time to care. I’ve got criminals to catch, bitches.” I don’t even own any dangly earrings for Christssakes!
So, with a heavy heart, I gave up my dreams of bounty huntin’ and I suppose it’s just as well. I’m no good with confrontation, what with my innate instinct to curl up into the fetal position and whimper at the first sign of danger. And you can let go of my hand now, sir.
But I will keep you posted if I ever decide to hunt gators, or get into the burgeoning field of rock star/pest control.
Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t even own a studded belt. But she does love the condom.