The 17th worst thing I ever did – by Chad Robuckle


Chad here, Eric’s off having his monkey heart injected with banana juice or something today, so he asked me to fill in. I know you guys can use a break from his usual drivel, so I figured I’d take pity on you all and grace you with one of my gems.

Anyway, my court-appointed psychiatrist has told me it will be a good exercise if I write down all my regrets on a big list. The only things I really regret are selling a fake piece of the Berlin Wall to that undercover cop and not dumping my ColecoVision stock back in ’82.

Well she didn’t think that was good enough, so she made her own list of all the “terrible things” I’ve done and revealed to her in our sessions. I’m supposed to write about them. It’ll be good for me. So she says.

So I’m like 3 days into this bullshit and I’m still only down to number 17. What a fucking drag. I figured it might be more enjoyable/less painful if I shared it with you DBs instead of wasting all this talent on that stupid cunt.

Number 17 on my list of all-time worst things I ever did, as compiled by this nitwit from the tiny portion of the shit that I’ve actually done but felt obliged to tell her about is the time I got my girlfriend thrown in the slammer for being an abusive mother.

She actually wasn’t an abusive mother, which I guess is why this is bad. In my defense, let me say that kid was a little prick and deserves to be in an orphanage. She doted on that brat night and day. Anything he needed, she was there for him. Love, support, help with his homework, whatever. A shoulder to cry on. She loved that kid more than anything in the world.

Well, if you know anything about me at all, you know Chad Robuckle doesn’t play second fiddle to anyone.

I tried having a rational conversation with her about this. I tried to comprimise, to meet her half-way. If she hadn’t been so headstrong, that kid would be living with his father in Nebraska right now. That’s all I was asking. Seems reasonable, right? But no, she had to argue with me. She had to push my fucking buttons.

My thinking was this: I like this bitch, I don’t like her kid. I don’t like his face. I don’t like his attitude. I don’t like him telling me I’m not his real dad in his smug little 8 year old voice when I order him to drive my car down to Arby’s and get me a couple Beef N Cheddars.

This is really embarassing, cuz as I’m thinking about this story, I realize I can’t remember this whore’s name. I’m drawing a total blank. But the kid was definitely Tyler. No wait, Taylor? Fuck it, let’s call him Skippy.

So Skippy needed to be out of the picture, ASAP. Normally, I wouldn’t even sweat a bitch like this, I’d just take her stuff in the middle of the night and move on. The problem is, her dad was loaded. Like Bill Gates. Like Chad Robuckle before he lost all his family money when ColecoVision went bust.

Now, how do you keep your girlfriend but get rid of her kid? I know what you’re thinking and normally I’d be right with you, buying my first class ticket on the murder train, but I recently had some heat on me from the fuzz so I had to play it cool. This had to be real subtle.

Well, I thought to myself, what kind of mother doesn’t have any kids? An unfit mother, that’s who.

Like I said, this bitc— Candy! That was her name! Anyway, Candy was practically mother of the year. I couldn’t just slap this shithead around and blame it on her, nobody would buy it. But if I was out of town and he started showing up with all sorts of bruises and he couldn’t explain why he had them, well that was another story, indeed.

Luckily for me, I had befriended a certain sack of shit with numerous heart problems, who will go nameless. Let’s just call him “Eric Filipkowski” for the sake of convenience. Anyway, Eric Filipkowski was on like 50 different drugs to control his blood pressure and whatever, so he wouldn’t have a heart attack in case he looked in the mirror and thought he saw a skeleton.

One of the drugs Eric Filipkowski was (is?) on is a blood thinner that prevents clotting. Perfect. I swipe it, replace it with Tic Tacs, slip some of this crap into Skippy’s chocolate milk, he goes to baseball practice and blammo!

So I go to Thailand on some “business” and while I’m taking my pick of 15 year old prostitutes, poor ol’ Skippy does all the work for me.

Simple, right?

Well, unfortunately for everyone involved (but mostly me), I guess I gave the kid too much, cuz he ends up in the hospital and now Candy has to explain why her son nearly bled to death, internally.

Since suspect numero uno was safely out of the country at the time watching a couple of trannies have sex with a midget in a Superman costume, the blame falls directly on poor, sweet Candy.

When they analyzed the kid’s blood while he was in that coma, obviously they found the huge amounts of Eric Filipkowski’s blood-thinner drug inside. Thankfully, I didn’t realize it’s actually a common ingredient in rat poison and basically available to anyone, so they didn’t think to connect the dots and tie it back to me.

So, long story short, they throw Candy in the klink and when Skippy wakes up in the hospital, they tell him he’s being shipped off to live with a foster family or something.

The worst part is, I return from my trip with a scorching case of syphillus and nowhere to crash.

Actually, the worst part is I had to dump 10 g’s worth of some pretty sweet H in a Bangkok Airport bathroom because I was tripping on really bad mescaline and thought I was being followed by an invisible robot who could read my thoughts, but that’s neither here nor there.

So there you have it. Lesson learned. Now you guys can join Doctor Thompson and her lesbian lover as you laugh at my misfortune. Great. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.

Now, on to number sixteen and the time I switched out that blind dude’s t-shirts with ones that had swastikas on them.

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