I call Chad Robuckle my imaginary friend, not because he’s my friend but because of a lack of nomenclature. “Imaginary enemy” sounds too Stalin-esque and seems to imply the internal conflicts of a madman. But Chad Robuckle is my enemy. And he’s imaginary. He lives only in my imagination. And he’s a rapist.
Chad would tell you he’s not in fact a rapist but rather someone once accused of rape but never convicted. Oh sure, Chad. You’re innocent. You and OJ. Everyone knows that you terrorized that girl until she retracted her statement. You were so innocent she moved to Canada and changed her name. You’re a real great guy.
So why would I chose to imagine such a terrible person? Well nobody really chooses their imaginary friends anyway. It’s a manifestation of your secret wants and desires. It is your actualized self come to “life”. Little children play with super-heroes, fanciful princesses who ride on unicorns and fully articulate teddy bears, complete with English accent.
So this begs the question: do I secretly want to be a rapist? Of course not. No more than a child actually desires to be a British teddy bear. Arm chair psychiatry wants to make a direct connection from desire to action to being. This is false. I hate Chad Robuckle with every fiber of my being. Chad Robuckle is a scoundrel. I would literally end my own life before I became Chad Robuckle.
But you gotta respect his style. Chad is a go-getter. He sees something he wants and he takes it. The rape incident is a twisted manifestation of this philosophy. There are less horrific examples of the Chad Robuckle way of life:
One time Chad walked into a Porsche dealership, dressed in an Armani suit, slaps a fake ID down onto the counter and says “The 911. The red one.” No questions asked, they hand him the keys. Twenty minutes in, he crashes it into an elementary school. Six kids and a hamster are dead. He walks, scot free.
This other time, Chad is at the movies and these kids are sitting behind him. You know these punks: laughing, kicking the seat, popcorn everywhere. They pull out the laser pointer and Chad loses it. He turns around and starts yelling but they’re not gonna back down. Well at this point in the evening, Chad had probably had seven or eight beers, three in the movie theater alone, so he just stands on the seat, pulls down his pants and takes a whiz all over these kids. Then he pulls up his pants, turns around and watches the rest of the movie. “Oh, and another thing,” he yells over his shoulder, “if one drop of that touches my shoes, you’re dead.” The kids are crying at this point. “Mister, how do we soak up the pee?” Sobbing. Again, casually, over his shoulder, “How the shit should I know? Get some napkins, lick it up, use your tampons.”
So Chad isn’t all bad. There are certain admirable qualities he posseses, as I believe I’ve proven above. Not convinced? Well how about the time Chad saved those people from that house fire? Yeah, that’s right. House fire. You’re not so high and mighty anymore are you? How many lives have you saved? You disgust me. Now listen up, Mr. Judgmental: Chad pulled a family of migrant workers, all seven of them, from their burning two-bedroom house in the valley. I guess you missed it even thought it was a headline on the LA Times. Oh that’s right, you get your news on TV. Fox news, probably.
Well Mister Smarty Pants, what the papers didn’t tell you was that Chad started that fire out of his hatred for immigrants but later realized he had left forensic evidence at the scene that could incriminate him. So Chad selflessly went back to get the gas can in the living room but was spotted by the family’s youngest. Chad could have killed that kid. You know how easy it is to snap a four year old’s neck? A malnourished four year old at that. But he didn’t! He saved that kid and his three brothers and sisters and his parents. So you want to sit here in judgment and indict me and Chad Robuckle as one person? Well fuck you! Fuck you all! Get the hell away from me, I don’t need any of you!