There are several things about my life that I’m not proud of, that I’d like to keep out of the public eye.  Actions or decisions that were made without careful thought … or perhaps under the evil enchantment of dumbassity.  Such as when I tried to impress the buxom Swiss au pair with my dancing moves while hammered on Coronas, but instead fell on my ass in the middle of the dance floor.

Or the time when I lied to the police about the whereabouts of a stolen movie poster only to have my roommate, who was in the sitting next to me the whole time, suddenly confess that he was the culprit instantly making me guilty of lying to a police officer and aiding and abetting.

But perhaps my most egregious error in judgment is when I committed insurance fraud.  And failed.

It’s one of those things that you hear about in the stories told by others.  Over a beer or a pizza, bragging about how they took the MAN, they took the SYSTEM for all they could get.  Normally it goes something like this:

“Man, you remember that little ding I got in my bumper last week?  Well, I went to my dad’s mechanic and he said he’d replace my entire engine and say that it was all part of the damage.  Plus, he’d up the price and let me have the extra.  I walked away with a brand new V8, 14.0 liter, turbo-charged engine and $1200 free and clear over my deductible.”

Of course, when you’re listening to these stories and have never actually made a claim on your auto insurance, then you actually believe these misleading bastards. I did.

Late one night, I was working at my IT company job that I had when I was in college.  I was half-assing some Cold Fusion or something until about 3am.  The company offices were really just two rooms rented out of the back of a cheap law firm on Main Street.  When I was finished I walked back to my Honda Accord parked in the dark alley behind the building intending to drive home and sleep.

When I opened the back door of the office, I think I shit my pants.

Some fuckwad had thrown a cinder block through my front, passenger window.  They then proceeded to steal all of my crap out of the backseat, pop open my trunk, and steal all of the shit out of there as well.  I’m surprised this ass monkey didn’t pop the gas cap and siphon all my gas out, too.  Why not take four perfectly good tires too, you ball licker.  Yeah, I’m still bitter.

I was the victim of a crime.

I called the police.  As a white person, I have this belief that the police are two things.  First, that they are competent.  Even though I saw classmates from my high school that were functionally retarded driving around patrol cars, I still had this closely held notion that they had professional training in fighting crime and catching criminals.  Secondly, I thought that they would care, at least on some level.

Only when I joined a fraternity and became “That Drunk Guy at Subway Ordering the Double Meatball Footlong at 3am” did I realize just how big of an ass Stillwater police really are.  There was one cop in particular – white guy, bald with brown hair on the edges.  Real dickhead.  I wish I remembered his name.  I can say this with impunity, because I live in Australia.  Come give me a speeding ticket, I dare you.  Yeah, the fragile egos of the sandwich artists behind the counter called the cops of me a few times for my pithy remarks.

So I call the police station and tell them that my car has been broken into and property has been stolen.  In about 20 minutes, a squad car shows up and two cops get out.  They have a mix of amusement that the entry tool through my window was a fucking cinder block and complete disinterest.

This was my first real experience as a victim and with the police.  I immediately ask them to fingerprint the cinder block.  We can catch the bastard!  They laugh at me.  I offer to help them canvas the area and start knocking on doors for witnesses.  Haha, so funny.  Nope, apparently the only role that these clowns actually play is to give me a report so I can go cry my heart out on the desk of my insurance agent.  They didn’t even wait for me to shovel the glass out of my car seat so I could drive home.

With police report in hand, I drove my ass back to my apartment.  It was winter and I had no window.  It was icy and I only got more mad as each finger blackened with frostbite.

I was no sucker when it came to insurance people.  Two summers before I had gotten food poisoning off of a pork sandwich from Eskimo Joes.  Let me say that again FOOD POISONING – ESKIMO JOES.  I was terribly sick, threw up all day, and finally rode my bike to the emergency room.  $700.  Someone told me that Joe’s paid another guy that got sick and I needed the money because I certainly did not have an extra wad of cash to throw at the hospital.  Well, I called them and got their insurance agent.  Some suit came to my house and asked me three questions and said he’d get back to me.  He never did.

I called four times about it and kept getting the run around.  Finally, some secretary told me that the case had been settled … and not in my favor.  Thank you, good day.  I know that I got FOOD POISONING from ESKIMO JOE’S for two reasons.  1. I did not eat anything else that day.  Not a single thing.  2. I used to work there and I know that half the staff trips acid or sucks the reefer DURING WORK.  I also know that those pork sandwiches sit out all day and get cooked in a microwave.  ESKIMO JOE’S = FOOD POISONING.  Just to make sure you know that.

I called my insurance agent and told him my sob story.  He told me to get an estimate.  So I made an appointment with a local mechanic.  Got the estimate, nice guy, ready to go.  The insurance guy refuses to take my quote.  Instead, he wants me to go to HIS guy.

Um … okay … but …

I had a score to settle with the insurance world.  And I had heard all of these glorious tales of people ripping them off for free money.  A dark plot started to take root in my mind.  I had some dings on my doors that were quite unsightly.  Maybe it was time to get them fixed.  I never ever tried stuff like this, but this time it would be my moment of cunning guile.  I was … a ninja.  An insurance defrauding ninja.

I went to HIS guy and showed him my window.  You can imagine that a cinder block rolling around in your car does a lot of peripheral damage … like tearing the seat cushion, smashing the arm rest, destroying the center console, scratching the interior door, and more.  It’s a fucking cinder block afterall.  He takes notes of the damage, which basically comes to BROKEN WINDOW.  We go back inside and he calls up my agent.

During the conversation, I moved on my plan.  Oh yeah, there was MORE damage to my car.  While these villains were breaking into my car, they must have kicked the door and now its terribly dented.  There was silence after my new revelation.  They talk it over in front of me like I’m not there.  The insurance guy sounds nervous.

HIS mechanic and I go back outside and re-examine the car.  I’m high stepping, I’m jubilant.  Yes, I’m gonna get paid!  The mechanic kneels down and inspects the damage.  In my mind, I can hear the sounds of a cash register.  Chu-ching, biyatch.  That is until the mechanic points out that the dents in the side panel are already rusted.  How could that happen if it was only broken into a few nights ago?

Oh shit.

Queue dry mouth and tightening of sphincter.  I … um … musta … ah … forget that it … um … already was there.

I was busted.  I knew it, the mechanic knew it, and the agent knew it.  We went back into the office and my plan was quickly executed like a Saudi criminal during morning prayer.  My Catholic guilt radiated out from my bright red face as I sheepishly slunk back in the chair wanting nothing more than to die.

The guy fixed my car after I ponied up a $500 deductible.  Well, when I say fixed, I mean only replaced the window.  He didn’t even so much as wink at the damage to the interior of my car.  AND … whenever I opened and closed the door, I could hear seven pounds of broken glass rattle inside it.  Even better, half the time I had to grab the window pane to help it slide up with the whir of the overworked electronic control.

I was too embarrassed to make a point of it.  I had gotten what I deserved. I was a dirty criminal destined to be sent to a “pound me in the ass” prison for my nefarious schemes.  I had been the victim, but I lost my self-pity card when I tried to cheat the system.  Two wrongs don’t make a right, you know.

I’ve said this many times and I’ll say it again – Karma is a dirty, dirty whore.