chad robuckle

Terry Bradshaw and me – by Chad Robuckle

So I’m driving over Laurel Canyon in the kind of slow-moving, not quite bumper-to-bumper traffic you experience on this road during the afternoon when this stupid whore rear-ends me out of nowhere.

I get out of my car, she gets out of hers, all apologetic and we stand there, examining the damage to my bumper. It’s not bad and I decide I’m not going to give her a hard time about it, even though she was totally on her cell phone, not paying attention, as women are apt to do.

“Hmm, well the damage really isn’t bad, maybe we don’t have to get the insurance companies involved in this?” Big mistake, bitch. Now I’m pissed.

I tell her that, no, I’m actually going to have to see her insurance and she offers to pay me a couple hundred bucks to avoid having her premiums go up. I’m looking at the damage and really it’s nothing that a three dollar jar of touch-up paint couldn’t fix, but she’s really pushing my buttons now. If there’s one thing Chad Robuckle values above all, it’s his honesty and his integrity and I’m not about to compromise my good name so I can play nice and commit insurance fraud.

Her kids are screaming in the back seat and people are honking so I lean in really close and whisper, “I’m going to act like I’m walking over to get my insurance card from my glove compartment, but I’m really going to get my gun and shoot you in the fucking head. So, if you value your life and the lives of your children, I suggest you run for it.”

I can tell she can’t quite believe this but my iron cold stare is starting to convince her so I walk back to my car and say loudly, “OK, let me just get my insurance out of the glove box,” when she decides I’m not joking. I look over and she’s got this expression of pure terror as she jumps in the car, puts it in drive and pulls around me, tires squealing and runs right into a car in on-coming traffic, airbags go off and everything. Priceless.

So I close the door and some bystanders run up to her car to see if everything’s OK and she gets out, blood running down her face from her broken nose and she can’t stop screaming. She pulls her kids out of the backseat and starts running up the hill.

The onlookers give me a “what the hell?” kind of look and I give them a “beats the shit out of me” one in response and we all stand around and wait for the cops. I explain to them and the police officers that I just wanted to do everything by the book and was walking over to my car to get my insurance card when this lady flipped out and tried to drive off. Several eye-witnesses backed up my side of the story, so even though the lady insisted I had threatened her, nobody had come forward and corroborated this. Not to mention, the cops search my car and the surrounding area and find no evidence of any gun, so I’m off the hook.

The 5-0 apologize to me, take my name and number, send me on my way and as I’m driving off, I look in the rearview and she’s screaming and yelling as they rip her kid out of her arms and throw her in the backseat of the squad car.

So I last about three seconds before I lose it and start laughing my ass off! Oh man, that was some funny shit! The irony of this whole situation is, I left the accident in such a good mood, that if it had happened again, I wouldn’t have been such a dick in the first place.

Anyway, a couple days pass and I get this knock on the door. This weasely-looking guy is standing there, holding his hat in his hands like people do in old time movies. He looks nervous as shit so I look over and make sure my Louisville Slugger is right by the door. It is.

“Chad Robuckle?” he asks.

“Who wants to know?” I reply.

He goes and explains that his name is Terry Bradshaw, when I say, “Like the football guy?” he gives me this blank stare and I know I’m dealing with a real winner. Anyway, he tells me he witnessed the accident and he knows I really did threaten to shoot that woman. Well at this point, I’m inching towards the bat and trying to remember how many corpse-size garbage bags I’ve got saved up under the sink. I figure he’s looking for money or whatever, but he actually has something else in mind.

“Man, I couldn’t believe that shit, it was great. You stayed so cool and totally fucked her shit up, that’s some next level shit and I’m down with that,” he says, never quite looking me in the eye.

Normally, I would kill someone just for making any sort of reference to Men In Black, but I’m also a sucker for flattery, so I released my grip on the bat and let him go on.

“Anyway, I don’t know who you’re with, CIA, FBI, KGB, whatever, but if you need any help, just let me know.”

Now let me pause here and tell you that I am a big fan of Mr. Miyagi. Not Pat Morita. Not the movie itself, just that character. I’m not into the kind of karate where you defend yourself as a last resort and you never use it to get money out of people, but still, there was just something about the way he bossed that greasy little wop around that tickled my fancy. So here I saw my chance to be my own Mr. Miyagi and I jumped at it.

“Well, Terry, you’re in luck. My last intern just quit and you look like you’re cut from good stock, so why don’t you go down to the 7-11 over there and get me a twelve pack of beer, for starters,” that seemed very mentor-like to me.

“Uhmm, well I was thinking like I could be your sidekick or partner or something, you know, go on special ops reconnaissance and shit like that?” I figured on this response and I was ready for it.

“Terry,” I began, closing the door behind me as I stepped outside in my underwear, “how many years of military experience do you have? Is it 12? Because that’s how much I have.”

“Oh, shit, Chad, I’m sorr—”

“Mr. Robuckle.” I cut him off.

“Sorry, right, Mr. Robuckle, anyways, I didn’t mean to question your authority or nothin’, I was just wondering what kind of beer I should get you and also um, I don’t have any cash…” What a stammering idiot.

“Terry, listen, when they would drop us Rangers behind enemy lines and we’d have to sneak into a village and cut every male resident over the age of thirteen years’ throats, rape all the women and then burn that whole place down, do you think we had time to sit around and question the orders of our superior officers? Do you think I would ask Sarge for some money? No, if he needed something, I would take it.”

“No, no, of course not, I’m sorry, sir,” he was practically crying. And he called me “sir!” This was great!

“Apology accepted. Now go. Get!” He ran as fast as his gimpy legs could take him. I guess he had a limp or something, probably from someone beating his ass when he was a kid. He looked like that type. “Heineken, Terry, no cheap shit!”

I went back inside, pretty pleased with myself. I began to fantasize about all the future “missions” I could send Terry Bradshaw on. Things were working out pretty well for ol’ Chad Robuckle, but not for long. This always happens to me. I live my life the best I can, I try to be a good person and how do I get rewarded? By a swift kick in the balls from J.C. or Buddha or fate or whoever the hell is running things up there.

My chance to be Mr. Miyagi went down the toilet when that stupid shithead literally ran right into two of Los Angeles’ finest as they were entering the same store he was fleeing from.

The cops drag Terry back to my place in handcuffs, he’d clearly been crying. I tell them I’ve never seen that sorry piece of shit in my life and he starts spouting off something about the accident and the CIA and a secret black ops Delta Ranger force or some crap like that. I just deny everything and they cart his ass off.

So not only does he fail me, he rats me out like a little pussy too. Why am I constantly made to suffer these indignities at the hands of the assholes of the world? If I did something to deserve it, I can’t think of what it is, for the life of me.

What a prick. I hope he’s sharing a cell with that uppity bitch from the other day.

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.

The Adventures of Arthur Q. Pennybottoms

When I was a kid, Chad Robuckle used to love to play this game called “Wealthy Industrialist”. It wasn’t so much a “game” as it was an excuse for Chad to dress up in his father’s suit, put on a fake moustache and try and scam old people out of their money.

I’m not proud of the fact that I tagged along with him on many of these occasions. In fact, not only was I a “criminal witness” to these crimes, but I actually could have been branded a “felony accomplice,” in some cases. But like Chad says, the statute of limitations has long since passed on anything we’ve done, at least from that period of time, so I feel like I can finally share these awful secrets.

Chad’s parents would leave him alone for weeks, sometimes even months, as they went globe-trotting all over the world on one of their lavish vacations, so I spent a lot of time at his house. It was paradise for a 12 year old: no adult supervision, all the cable channels, a pool table and an absent father with a monumental-sized porno collection.

Inevitably, Chad would get bored and start looking for some excitement. That year, his brand of excitement was playing wealthy industrialist. Now, of course, a 12 year old boy with a fake moustache does not look anything like a wealthy industrialist. What the hell is a wealthy industrialist anyway? What kind of 12 year old kid gets his kicks pretending to be J.P. Morgan? The kind who kept his stash of baseball cards tucked away in the back of his closet, underneath some stolen uranium he got from the nuclear plant that they closed down.

The kind named Chad Robuckle.

Luckily for Chad, the primary target of his game (or scam) was the elderly. If you’ve ever been to Florida, you know old people can’t see too well, so I guess it’s not too surprising that they usually didn’t catch on. That last sentence was confusing, I was just trying to make the experience relatable, not imply this took place in Florida.

So one day, we pull up to the local senior center in Mr. Robuckle’s Ferrari and me and “Arthur Q. Pennybottoms” step out of the car to try our luck with the bingo crowd.

Arthur Q. Pennybottoms may have been short and ill-fitted to his suit and his fake moustache might have moved around way too much, but he sure was able to walk into a room and find a mark.

We sat down next to some rich dowager and immediately he starts with the sweet talk. This lady had one of those fake glass eyes that didn’t quite focus on you when she was talking to you. I kinda got this vibe that she used to be really hot, so his attention probably took her back to a better time, before her grandson threw a firecracker at her face, or whatever.

He starts in with his usual rap, he’s Arthur Q. Pennybottoms, wealthy industrialist. He had this whole script he would follow though he claimed to improvise and tailor what he was saying to each individual “player”. He told her he had made millions in soybeans and now spent most of his time traveling the world in his yacht. Which would explain why he was in the middle of Connecticut at a senior center playing bingo, but whatever.

By the time we’re done having dinner at Sizzler, we’ve invested a good six hours in this broad. I’m bored out of my fucking skull. She’s telling us stories about FDR and doing the Charleston and god knows what else. Chad, excuse me, Arthur is acting like he’s eating it all up, he couldn’t be more fascinated and on her side of things, she probably hasn’t had anyone listen to a word she’s said in 20 years. What’s the harm, right? Well, I’m getting to that.

Finally, Arthur decides that the three of us, Mabel, I think her name was, him and me, his personal attorney, Jerry Leibowitzstein, should all go back to her place for some warm milk. I thought we were off the hook, because at first she looked pretty offended but then she patted her arm and called him a sly dog.

I don’t know if you’ve ever ridden in a 1988 Ferrari Testarossa, but if you have, you know there’s no back seat. There’s barely a trunk, so I really just wanted to go home, at this point. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, ran over to the pay phone and called Mr. Robuckle’s cell phone, which we brought along to make it seem more plausible that I was lawyer. Well, I run back to the table to answer the phone and pretend to have a serious conversation. I tell Arthur that, unfortunately, we’re going to have to cut the evening’s festivities short, because I have pressing business back at the law firm.

Well what does ol’ Arthur do? He tells her that I’m a liar and I’m not even a lawyer. As I’m sitting there, this kid has the balls to tell this old woman that he feels sorry for me, because I’m not as successful as he is, so he lets me pretend to be a lawyer because I’m jealous of him. He apologizes profusely on my behalf and tells her that we’ll bid her adieu right now, so embarrassed he is by my behavior.

Of course, this only works to play into his favor even more, because she laughs the whole thing off and insists we both come back to her place now. As I’m sitting there, squatting over the hump in the middle of the 3 inch space behind the seats, she tells him that she has many friends who are jealous of her, as well and that people like me should be pitied and not judged too harshly because the poor didn’t have the advantages of a moral upbringing like the moneyed classes.

I know what you’re thinking, but at this point, I’m keeping my mouth shut just to see how far this whole charade is gonna go.

Well we get back to her place and of course it smells like moth balls and Aspercream, but at this point, I’m pretty used to that. Arthur called it “the scent of money”. No wait, it was Chad. Let me reiterate that both these kids were loaded. He had a $1500/month allowance when we were in sixth grade, so he didn’t need this money at all, he just liked to rip people off.

Arthur isn’t through the door more than 2 minutes before they start making out. I took this as my cue to start searching the bedroom for loot. I found the usual crap: stock, bonds, jewels, pearls, shit like that. Nothing too interesting. If he wanted any of that, he could get it for himself. I wasn’t a thief.

As I was about to leave, though, I spotted a wall safe poking out from behind an old portrait of this lady’s great-granddaughter. For some reason, the picture was painted while she was dressed up for a 1920’s theme party. Anyway, I put the painting on the bed and take a shot at the combo.

I try the old standby: 61 19 26.

Bingo! First try! Matlock’s birthday. I’d need the hands of five people to count the number of times I opened an old person’s safe by knowing Andy Griffith was born June 1st, 1926.

Well I peek inside and there’s nothing staring back at me but a curled up piece of old parchment. I pull it out of the safe and carefully roll it out on the bed.

A pirate map.

Is she kidding? What hell is an old lady doing with a pirate map? Nowadays, I would have ripped it up and put it back in the safe with a note telling her not to be a fucking moron, but you have to understand this was a different time. We were just a few short years out from the Goonies, at this point, so the lure of a pirate map in the hands of a 12 year old boy was just too great to resist.

I snuck out the door unnoticed while Arthur was busy fumbling with this old woman’s enormous bra/girdle contraption and ran the few blocks back to Chad’s house. Luckily, I knew his parents were one of the few people back then to have their own Xerox machine, so I made a couple copies of the map, ran back to the old folk’s home and returned the map before anyone had a chance to notice. There were clothes all over the floor in a trail to the bathroom and I could hear the two of them splashing around behind the closed door, so I figured I wouldn’t be missed.

I went back to Chad’s house to examine the copies in greater detail. I knew enough to make sure to copy both sides and scoured them all for clues. Around 3 am, Chad showed up with a smile and a big bag of goodies. He actually seemed pleased that he didn’t have to steal anything this time, seeing as the old woman handed over anything he wanted. I wouldn’t attribute that to relief on his part, for avoiding any criminal activity (besides the obvious fraud and statutory rape), but rather because now he would spend the next few hours bragging about how great he was in bed, going into way too much detail about his exploits.

I told him to shut the hell up and showed him the map to which he made a big show of producing the original from his satchel of booty. My annoyance was quickly forgotten as he launched into the story behind the map. Apparently, it had been a family heirloom stolen from a pirate captain by the Spanish back in 1655. The map lead to a cave on a remote island in the Bahamas that was said to hold a magic lamp.

Sounded like a bunch of bullshit for me, but I wasn’t gonna say so. Not when I knew I was getting a free trip to the Bahamas out of it.

We boarded the Robuckle’s personal Gulfstream III. We took the Gulfstream III because the family’s main jet, the Gulfstream IV was taking Mr. and Mrs. Robuckle to a Japanese island at the time, so we got what Chad referred to as “the filthy leftovers”.

As we took off, he spent quite an amount of time mocking the wide leather captain’s chairs we were sitting in. Apparently the ones in the other jet had heat and massage, these only had massage. Chad was so angry at his parents that when he got sick on all the Dom Perignon we were drinking, he threw up all over his parent’s private bedroom.

I started to yell at him but he assured me there were three other cabins available and we would be landing in a few hours anyway.

So we got to Nassau and our charter boat was waiting to take us to the Island. In addition to the crew of six, Chad had hired a local to follow us around and be our manservant. I guess this guy had a regular name but Chad liked to call his manservants “Jub Jub”. At first he objected to the moniker, but five hundred dollars in cash tends to smooth things over quickly. Jub Jub it was.

I asked Chad if Jub Jub was a sentimental thing, because he always called these people he would hire to carry his bags and spare bowler hats “Jub Jub”. No, he explained, it was simply more humiliating that way. Touché.

After a few days on the yacht, Captain Chad finally located the island in the exact spot the crew had told me it would be, but he wanted to get there on his own, without anyone’s help, save that of the US Coast Guard and the $40,000 satellite navigation system the boat had.

We set down anchor in a harbor and me, Chad and Jub Jub got in a dinghy and headed for shore.

Immediately, Jub Jub started asking for more money as Chad had brought a considerable amount of crap ashore with him and expected this 120 pound man to carry it all. Chad told Jub Jub to quit whining, threw another wad of hundreds at his feet and we were off.

We walked around the island for a while, it wasn’t that big. I didn’t see any cave, though Chad kept referring to the map and his portable GPS while insisting it was just around the corner. There really was no “corner” to speak of, it was just a small island. I think it may have actually been an “atoll”, I’m not sure.

You might be reading this and thought to yourself, “Chad Robuckle had a portable GPS device in 1988? That sounds like bullshit to me.” You might think that only the military had access to things like that back then and you’d be right. They were also the only ones with submarines and jet-packs. So when Chad threw a fit and demanded something like that, that’s where his parents went: the military. But good eye, nonetheless.

Finally, after a few hours of searching and several fainting spells by Jub Jub, we were ready to take a break. The sun was beating down pretty hard and though he was holding an umbrella to block the sun from Chad’s face, Jub Jub was pretty tired and couldn’t hold up his arm that well. Chad was pretty annoyed with the whole thing and took his anger out on Jub Jub.

Jub Jub was pretty pissed off too and threatened to walk. As Chad took out his wallet, Jub Jub told him to shove his money up his ass. No amount of money was worth the humiliation and hardship he had suffered.

Chad tried to reason with him, pointing out that not only was Jub Jub hundreds of miles from home on a deserted island, he was hundreds of mils from home on a deserted island with two 12 year old white American boys with active imaginations and a working knowledge of Bahamian sodomy laws. This seemed to work.

We took refuge under a palm tree and Jub Jub went about laying out our picnic lunch, but after that many hours in the sun, our cucumber finger sandwiches didn’t taste too fresh. Chad started chucking them at a giant tortoise that was lumbering past us, maybe 20 yards away. One of the sandwiches took a weird bounce and disappeared from sight.

Chad and I looked at each other in disbelief. Could it be? We ran over to the spot where the sandwich had disappeared and there it was: the cave! It was little more than a 2 foot wide hole in the ground, but it was a cave, nonetheless.

Chad clapped his hands twice in rapid succession and summoned Jub Jub. He was to lower himself into the cave first, to make sure it was safe. Well, it wasn’t.

From the darkness, we heard Jub Jub scream out in pain. Apparently the floor of the cave was covered in sea anemones and Chad had demanded Jub Jub remove his shoes so as to make sure he didn’t crush any of the pearls or valuable gold trinkets with his feet.

We scurried down after him and even in the little light drifting down into the cave we could tell there was blood everywhere. Chad remarked that it was too bad they hadn’t brought any morphine, which was a lie. There were three or four bottles of it up with the picnic basket, I think he just didn’t want to waste any time going back up to get it.

Chad urged Jub Jub along, promising they would take care of his feet after the treasure was found. I can’t help but think that if he hadn’t been so eager to find something so he could go back and tend to his horrible wound, he would have easily seen the tripwire that had been laid along the floor of the passage, but he didn’t.

Real booby traps aren’t like the ones you see in the movies. They’re kind of lame. At least these were. The large wooden spike was not even traveling that fast when it pierced poor Jub Jub’s abdomen. If his brain had been getting the blood that was instead dripping out of his foot and covering the ground, he would have had the mental wits to dodge it or at least put up his hand to deflect it. That’s probably all it would have taken. Like I said, me and Chad easily defeated the next six or seven booby traps we encountered and we were only 12 years old.

As Jub Jub clung to life, we promised him we would find the magic lamp and use it to save him. He gurgled something about not leaving him there alone and that we were a couple of pricks, I’m not sure exactly. Anyway, we raced ahead, merely jumping over the trip wires and walking around the deep pits with spikes in them. We encountered a dead end where there was simply a wall in front of us. We noticed there was some sort of clue or riddle written in Spanish on the wall that I think we were supposed to solve, but instead we just kicked at the bricks until the wall fell down.

And then, we saw it. The magic lamp. I nearly shit myself out of surprise. I was almost as sure of the fact that there was no magic lamp as I was that there would be only two (living) people riding that dinghy back to the yacht that afternoon. I began to question myself, as I often did when I hung around with Chad. Had I misjudged him? Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all. I knew I was lying when I told Jub Jub we would be back to save him with the power of the magic lamp, but Chad had seemed to believe in the lamp all along. Maybe he really meant it?

Chad walked up and carefully pulled the lamp down from its pedestal in the middle of the room. We heard some rocks moving around in a side compartment somewhere but whatever booby trap they had been designed to power, it was had long ago stopped functioning.

He held the lamp up and examined it in the streaks of sunlight that managed to shine through from a mysterious outside light source. He took the lamp in his shirt and lovingly caressed the side of it with the fabric when suddenly, smoke poured forth from its end a giant bald man of Middle Eastern origin appeared out of nowhere.

I shit you not, it was a fucking genie. He launched into some big spiel about how he was the seventh son of Agra bah, king of Arabia, and he had been entombed in this magic lamp for sixteen centuries, yadda yadda yadda. Apparently, Chad sensed the urgency of the situation and told him to shut the hell up. He cut to the chase and asked if we were getting a wish or not. The genie said that we did indeed get one wish that he would grant with his magical powers, not three like we were thinking we were entitled to. I’m sure if there had been more time, Chad would have wished him back in the lamp until we got three wishes or a million wishes or better yet, infinity wishes, but like I said, time was of the essence.

Chad looked at me and gave a sigh. He told me he knew what he had to do. I had never seen Chad so serious in his life, but this was a big moment for him. He was about to do the one unselfish thing he had ever done in his whole life.

Or so I thought.

When we got back to the yacht, some of the crew members inquired about Jub Jub, but Chad threw some cash at them and said he wasn’t familiar with anyone named Jub Jub. They seemed to catch his drift and didn’t bring it up again. For my part, I didn’t speak to Chad til we were back on American soil and I knew he couldn’t strand me in some foreign country to explain to the local police and Jub Jub’s widow what had happened.

I was fed up. Sure, I laughed when Jub Jub cut his foot in the cave, but murder was something else. And that’s what it was to me: murder. Chad had the power to save someone’s life, but instead, he used his one wish on himself. Not only that, he wished for something so ridiculous and stupid, I can barely repeat it. If he had wished for a giant penis or the power of flight or something like that, at least I wouldn’t have been that surprised. But to let a man die just because you want the ability to tell which celebrities are secretly gay? That’s just plain awful.

Of course, eventually I forgave him. He agreed to send Jub Jub’s widow a letter explaining what happened on the island and where she would be able to find his corpse. I made him put in some stuff about how he was a great guy and he died valiantly, saving some babies who were trapped down in the cave. Chad didn’t like that but he knew I was seriously pissed about it, so he did it.

In the end, I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that Chad will always be my best friend. More than a best friend, he’s like family to me. Not in the hokey sense, of “you’re my brother and I’d do anything for you”, but in the real way. You can’t choose your family. They may be terrible murderers who cheat old women out of their retirement savings and laugh hysterically when a man’s stomach is punctured by a sharp wooden spike, but they’re family.

Chad Robuckle is my family. Sure, Jub Jub had a family too: a wife, six kids and several infirm old relatives he took care of, but he wasn’t my family. And while I’m sad he’s gone, you’ve gotta look out for your own family, not some immigrants who you barely know.

I hate Carly Simon – By Chad Robuckle

Hey everybody, Chad here, sorry I haven’t written in a while. I had this phony worker’s comp claim going and my crooked, Jew lawyer told me it wasn’t a good idea to be posting blogs if I was gonna say I couldn’t work cuz of my carpal tunnel. Anyway, some shithead ratted me out and now that I’m not getting any more free money, I’m back here on Eric’s blog to bring the occasional bright spot to this douchebag’s otherwise dreary collection of anecdotes.

In case you didn’t know, I hate working. I’ve always hated working, which brings me to the subject of today’s lesson. Back when I was 24, my scam was entering sweepstakes. I had recently gotten fired from this job I had at IBM after only a few days because I “padded” my resume a little bit and said I knew how to work with computers. Well, I kept my key card and what I would do is sneak back in there, late at night and use their bulk mail stamp machine to send out tens of thousands of sweepstakes entries for free. It didn’t cost me a dime cuz I had also stolen all the envelopes and paper and pens too.

Normally, I’d just win little crap here and there; gift certificates, lame-ass 3 day cruises, stuff like that, but I did hit it big once. I won the “Always Stay-Free Maxi Plus Carly Simon is My Mom For-A-Week Sweepstakes”. I was stoked even though I didn’t know who the hell this broad was, but then someone showed me one of her records and she looked hot.

Well unfortunately for ol’ Chad Robuckle, here, the album I was shown was from 1971 or something cuz this bitch was old! She opens the door and my jaw drops down to the floor, landing right next to her boobs.

I make nice for a while but she seems pretty pissed off that I don’t know any of her music. Give me a break, I’m not a hundred years old, right? She’s naming off these songs and I’m looking at her with a blank look, it was pretty funny. So to be nice and mostly get her off my fucking back, I pretend like I’ve heard of a few. “Oh yeah, that one about that guy, that was good,” I said. I think she sang backup for Beethoven or someone, I’m not sure.

Well that didn’t work for very long because then she starts hassling me about putting my shoes on her couch or something. I told her, “Lady, this contest is a joke, you’re not really my mom so stop giving me static. If you want to do some mom-stuff, go make me a sandwich.”

So next thing I know, she’s on the phone with her manager or the tampon company or something telling them that I’m being incredibly rude and she wants me removed from her home and whatnot. Oh yeah, I had also called her a “stupid cunt”, I forgot that part.

Unfortunately for her, she had signed some contract that made her legally bound to let me stay. Boy was she pissed! I was actually gonna leave anyway, cuz it was so boring, but once I heard her on the phone talking shit about me, I made it my mission to piss her off.

I figured, I’m supposed to be her son, so why not act like it? What do kids do? They breastfeed. Surprise, surprise, she wasn’t down for that. Those milk sacks dried up 50 years ago, anyway, I know that. I was just busting her balls.

No matter how funny my antics were to a normal person, this stuck-up whore just couldn’t appreciate them. I can understand her being sore when I let her dog out and it got run over but how was I supposed to know it wasn’t allowed to go outside? It kept yappin’ so I figured it wanted to go out and play. Seems like a fair assessment of the situation, no? I’m not used to living in New York City where there’s cars everywhere. Jeez, you’d think she’d give me a break.

And I also don’t blame her for being mad when I took those pictures of her taking a dump. Oh wait, she wasn’t mad cuz she doesn’t know about that. Never mind.

But what I can’t understand is how when someone wins a contest where they get to pretend that you’re their mother, you get mad at them for doing normal kid things. Normal kid things like shitting yourself while lying on a $15,000 couch because you’re too lazy to get up and besides, you’re watching TV and you don’t want to miss anything. Kids shit themselves all the time. If you’re going to have a child, don’t go and blow 15 grand on a couch. It’s just common sense that you should furnish your house in a more kid-friendly manner.

Here I am, trying to watch Access Hollywood and she’s yelling at me, saying I ruined her couch and her life. I told her that if she spent less time yelling and more time cleaning me up like someone with decent parenting skills would do, then her couch would still be ruined, but I would feel a whole lot more comfortable. Plus I could finish watching my show.

I guess this struck a nerve with her or something, cuz she totally stopped yelling and sat down on the couch next to me and started sobbing. I wasn’t really sure what to do in that situation so I turned the volume up and pretended not to notice. Soon it was no use, as she started hugging me and shit.

“Thank you, thank you so much, Chad Robuckle!” This was probably the last thing I expected her to say to me.

It turns out, she had a lot of guilt about being on the road when her kids were little or something, I wasn’t really paying attention. There was definitely something in there about me opening up her eyes about being too materialistic… I don’t know, it was all a bunch of garbage.

If this was all just a big trick to get me to leave, it worked. When she went in the kitchen to get us some wine so we could talk some more about her problems, I made a run for it, only realizing once I got to the elevator that I was still wearing the pants I had just soiled myself in, half an hour earlier. But I wasn’t gonna go back in there and to be honest, I’ve done worse things in my life than walk a few blocks in some shit-stained trousers.

So I got home, changed my pants, unplugged the phone and wondered what the hell was up with women, anyways? Here I had been a total dick to this old bag and she was acting like she was in love with me. Go figure.

And if anybody needs any tampons, my whole bedroom closet is filled with them, so just come over and grab a few cases, if you want.

Fish Killer

You might remember I spoke about Chad Robuckle making fun of my fish dying in a recent post. I guess he reads my blog, cuz he sent me this angry email saying I couldn’t use his name anymore. Whatever, free country, right? By the end of the email he seemed to have cooled down and forgotten all about that, though, because he gave me another story to use.

Chad said the reason he made fun of my dead fish was only because he was upset that I had not taken proper care of it. He assumed this because, according to him, a goldfish can live for up to five years if properly cared for. He said he was just covering up because he doesn’t like to show people his real emotions. He said he felt so bad about what had happened, he cried for half an hour when he got home. What a pussy, huh?

Apparently, Chad loves fish. I don’t know if this is like a “Troy McClure/sexual attraction” thing or what, but it’s weird. I didn’t think Chad cared about anything but himself. And fish? Who gives a shit, right? He said it, himself.

Another thing Chad used to love is radio station contests. He would sit in his room by the phone, listening to the radio and try and win whatever he could. He got free bikes, dinners, CDs (or albums, back then), even money. Now, like I said, Chad was loaded, so it’s ridiculous that he would need any of this stuff. He probably threw it away once he got it. I think he just wanted to win it so no one else would.

The biggest thing Chad ever won was $10,000 cash. That’s a lot of money for anyone, let alone a six year old. Chad knew exactly what he wanted to do with his money and wouldn’t hear of anyone trying to dissuade him. I actually remember vaguely hearing about this when it happened, even though I hadn’t met him yet, it was that big of a deal.

Chad hired a dump truck to take 3000 quarter pounder with cheese sandwiches from the local McDonalds down to the ocean. All the news crews were there as this six year old made a big show of operating the dumper thing-a-mo-bob himself and sending all the sandwiches off a pier into the water.

It made a big splash and it seemed like most of the buns and wrappers and stuff floated right up to the top. The cops who had been watching realized they had just witnessed was actually a “crime” and began asking questions about who was responsible.

Well, you should have seen Chad’s parents make a break for it, leaving their six year old to fend for himself. I guess he cried like a little girl, not because he was going to jail or racking up a huge fine for his parents, but because his plan had backfired.

Little Chad had just wanted to feed the fish, you see. Not “fish food” but something good, for a change. Apparently six year olds don’t realize that fish don’t eat hamburgers. Especially not ones that are all wrapped up and in a big pile that weighs a thousand pounds and comes crashing down on them, killing them and making them float up to the top. Plus, a bunch more died from the ink in the wrappers and stuff.

All in all, it was one of the worst maritime disasters in the area, killing fish by the thousands. All cuz of Chad. He told me that as he was recalling this story, he started crying again.

What a fucking pussy.

The early bird gets the worm

I don’t know if I’ve already told this story or not, but anyway, people have been asking me how I met Chad Robuckle, so I figured I would give them the scoop. Like I said, I may have already written about this and if so, I apologize. My brain was frozen for 46 minutes, give me a break.

Anyway, when I was a kid, my mom got it in her head that I wanted to be a writer. What a bitch, huh? So she signed me up for all these “creative writing” workshops and classes and whatnot. Don’t worry, I wasn’t one of “those kids”, because, despite her best efforts, I resisted any attempt to make me over as some fruity “creative” type.

One of these creative writing classes took place in some lady’s house. I’m not sure if her son was in it or whatever, I can’t remember. So anyway, we had to write a story about our saddest memory. I was like eight or nine years old at the time, and by far, the youngest kid in the class. I had led a pretty sheltered life so when I went home and tried to think up a sad memory to write about, I drew a blank.

Another problem I had back then, continuing up until I was in college, was that I used to focus on what I thought people wanted me to do. If you’ve ever tried this approach, you know that it’s the only sure-fire way to ensure failure in anything. So I sat at my desk and thought, “what am I expected to write about?” rather than honestly approaching the subject.

My real saddest memory was probably not getting to go to Disneyworld or something. If I had written about that, it probably would have been really funny, but instead, I brought in something I thought everybody wanted to hear. Boy was I wrong!

So I bring in my story, I don’t even remember if it was true or not, but I read it in front of everyone. It was all suspenseful and wrought with anxiety, a masterpiece in my own mind. I described how I walked downstairs to breakfast one morning and I noticed my mother had been crying. I then went into detail about the grief I felt upon discovering that my favorite goldfish had died.

I finish my story and everyone’s just sitting there, perhaps they weren’t clapping because they were all just blown away by the gravitas of it all? Then one of these “creative” types speaks up. He was this cocky little bastard who prided himself on being an asshole.

“You know, if your story had been about a dog or a cat or even a bunny, I think we all would have been like, ‘aww, that’s a really sad story’. But a fish? Who cares? I’ve gotta be honest with you, I’m glad your fish is dead.”

I didn’t really know what to say, I just kinda sat there in silence, deciding to never write again. Everyone laughed and patted Chad on the back for really “giving it” to me.

So that was it. Ever since then, Chad has been interwoven into the fabric of my life, despite my best efforts to extricate him from it.

And I remained true to my vow. I never wrote again.

Chad Robuckle’s dad

Recently, I was reminded of a story Chad Robuckle told me, the summer after we graduated from high school. I remember he took me out in this field and lit a fire and began to dance around it while dousing himself with whiskey. This probably wasn’t the brightest idea but as luck would have it, he never caught fire.

After doing this for about fifteen minutes, all the while chanting what I’m sure he thought was a good imitation of an authentic indian rain dance, he passed out on the ground in front of the fire, completely out of breath. I debated leaving him there but as I was sneaking off to the car, he woke up and called me back.

“Akumbo, my brother,” he said, (I’m assuming “Akumbo” was my sacred Indian name), “Akumbo, now that my soul has been cleansed, I am ready to share my deepest, most darkest secret with you.”

“Oh great, I’m going to get raped by this psychopath out in the middle of nowhere, far away from anyone who could possibly help me!” I thought to myself.

“Oh yeah?” I said.

“Akumbo,” he continued, “Let me tell you why you’ve never met my father…”

Oh god, this was gonna take a while. I pulled up a tree stump and took a swig from the remains of the whiskey bottle.

Chad started his story back in the early 80’s, I’ll leave out the parts about his alleged “abuse”. It sounds like he had things pretty easy, I don’t know, I was kinda zoning out. Anyway, the good part started when his father took Chad for a Sunday drive in his Ferrari.

His dad proceeded to tell him that their sizable fortune had been built on lies. Mr. Robuckle revealed that he wasn’t really a doctor, but had merely been posing as one in order to peddle fake flu shots to schools, hospitals and old folks homes. He would run lucrative “clinics” where he would come out and “innoculate” everyone and charge big bucks to do it.

His dad was fuzzy on what was in those syringes but needless to say, it wasn’t flu vaccine. I guess a couple people got sick, but nothing too bad. Anyway, the point was, he had been found out and was now under investigation for all sorts of things. I guess Chad started to cry as his father described all the horrible things that happen to handsome white men in prison but he reassured him that he would not suffer that fate.

“No Chad, your father’s not going to prison, he’s worked all of that out.” He said, cryptically.

Then they pulled up on the side walk in front of a bank. Without a word, Mr. Robuckle got out of the car, took a machine gun from the tiny trunk and begin firing at random, killing ten or eleven people, on the spot. Chad watched in horror as his father dropped the gun, then climbed into a different car in the parking lot and calmly drove off, never to be seen again.

You see, Chad’s father had figured, rather than go to prison for ten years and get paroled on good behavior after six, he would instead commit mass murder and then flea to Canada, knowing that since he would face the death penalty at home, Canada would not allow him to be extradited back to the United States.

“So your father killed 11 people rather than go to jail for a few years?” I asked in disbelief.

“Ummm, I think it was like 14, a couple people died from their wounds, later.” He replied.

His father had made it to Canada and was welcomed with open arms by that cursed nation of cowards. He had begun life anew, got a new Canadian wife and they soon had a son of their own whom they also named Chad.

“Wow, Chad, I don’t know what to say.” It sure as hell explained a lot, but I thought it would be insensitive of me to come out and say that at this point.

“Yeah,” he said, “I know that fourteen people are dead from this, but I can’t help but think like the real victim that day was me.”

Ah yes, there’s the Chad we all know and love.

“How do you figure that?” I asked, barely masking my incredulousness.

“Well those people are dead. I am left to suffer on. Alone. A boy without his father.” He said this without a hint of irony.

“What about all the children of the dead people your father killed?” I had to point out the obvious with Chad.

“Hmm, I don’t know. I’m not sure if any of them had kids.”

“You never looked into it?” I asked.

“Why would I? I had my own problems. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Akumbo, you grew up with a father.”

So anyway, it went on like this for a while. Chad’s mother had quickly remarried someone equally as rich and morally bankrupt as his real father, so I don’t think he missed him that much. For some reason, Chad always referred to his step-father as “Uncle Steve”. I had always thought it was just a creepy nickname but under the stars that night, I began to wonder if it was his actual uncle.

That doesn’t really have anything to do with the story at hand, it just occured to me. I’m trying to be as faithful to my own mindset as possible, while recounting the events of that night.

When Chad was done sharing and the fire was almost out, he gave me a hug and toweled himself off. I checked my back pocket for my wallet but it was still there, so I wondered if perhaps he was being sincere this night.

I only saw Chad a few more times that summer before we went off to our seperate colleges. Over the years we’ve kept in touch as best as we could, considering I hate him and he can’t figure out a way to use me for financial gain, but it hasn’t been the same since high school.

It’s like something died along with the fire that warm summer night. Something born out of the ashes of a terrible secret. Dying only to rise again as the phoenix of my memory is rekindled by stories of flu shot fraud in the news.

Fuck you, Canada.

A completely original work of fiction

Don’t you hate when people just take old stories or fables that everyone already knows and “contemporarizes them” or puts them in a new context? I do. Here is a story from Chad Robuckle’s childhood. For those who don’t know, Chad Robuckle is my imaginary friend who may or may not be a rapist.

The Boy Who Cried “Penguin”

When Chad Robuckle was growing up, he did not get along very well with his parents. He chalks it up to the fact that he was adopted and his parents were racists who hated the fact that they got stuck with a Mexican baby, but that’s just him making stuff up. He’s obviously just a regular white kid and he looks exactly like his dad so I don’t think he’s even adopted.

Anyway, like I said, Chad did not get along with his parents. They’re actually really cool, nice people. Chad is just a dick. I remember growing up, he would always bitch and whine that his parents were “oppressing him” because they wouldn’t let him smoke. This was when he was six, just so you know. Basically he would push and push til they just reached the limits of what a human being could put up with from their own child and then they would finally punish him. Which would just make him bitch even more about how awful they were.

I remember the day Coleco Vision came out, Chad threw his Atari at his grandmother because she said she didn’t have the money to go out and buy him a new video game system. When his family got back from the hospital, they grounded him for three days and made him write a letter to his grandmother, apologizing to her for what he had done. He said he wasn’t going to write any “stupid fucking letters to that old, dried up bitch” because “that stupid whore can’t read it anyway since the Atari scratched her cornea when it hit her in the face.” Nice guy, huh?

As time went on, Chad’s behavioral problems only got worse. If he had been born ten years later, perhaps his parents could have taken him on the Montel Williams show to get him some help but unfortunately for everyone, daytime TV in the 80’s was dominated by The Price is Right and The $25,000 Pyramid.

Finally, Chad’s parents had enough of his shenanigans and placed him on “permanent grounded status”. This meant Chad would go to school and come directly home and be confined to his room all afternoon. Don’t feel too bad for him though, because first of all, he never came home right after school. Both his parents worked so he would just go and do whatever he wanted and then run home at 5:30 and act like he had been there the whole time. His older sister, Karin, was supposed to watch him but she was so scared of him, after what he had done to their grandma, she said and did whatever he told her to.

Second of all, Chad’s bedroom was actually his parent’s old master bedroom which he made them give to him instead. It was the size of a regular one-bedroom apartment and had its own bathroom. His parents had to share theirs with his three sisters because Chad wouldn’t let anyone enter the “Spankatorium”, as he called it. This bedroom was huge and even had a trampoline in it. Cable TV, his own phone line, that G.I. Joe aircraft carrier that was like seven feet long. What more could a kid want? Of course, his parents didn’t dare try and take any of this stuff away from him. I’m surprised they even grounded him in the first place.

Anyway, I’m getting way off topic here. When Chad was nine, he decided that he had enough of his parent’s tyranny and after watching a very informative episode of 20/20 one night on his big screen TV, Chad was inspired to finally reign in his parents under his control once and for all.

He waited til the next time they tried to punish him. I believe he got caught feeding his four year old sister, Marcy, some beer, when his dad ordered him to his room and forbid him, under the rules of the honor system, from watching any more of the Spice Channel for the next two weeks. His dad thought it was odd that Chad didn’t throw a fit and sulk like he usually did, instead bounding up the stairs with a smile on his face.

When Chad got upstairs, he put on his headset phone, gathered his wits about him, took a deep breath and dialed 911. You see, Chad had seen John Stossel do a show about a new law that required the Police to make an arrest when they got a domestic violence call. I guess the law was designed so that wives or wimpy husbands who got their asses kicked wouldn’t be “persuaded” into saying nothing had happened. So if the cops got a call, they had to arrest someone, even if nobody wanted to press charges. Seems like a pretty good idea huh?

Well Chad had perverted the law to suit his own means. The cops showed up and sure enough, even though both his parents denied that anything of the sort had taken place, his dad was hauled off to jail in handcuffs in front of the whole neighborhood.

Now, even though he had made an anonymous call, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who was responsible and soon as he got bailed out of jail, his father marched up to Chad’s room and barged right in after knocking. But Chad was ready for him. He held the phone up like a gun and informed his father he had already dialed nine and the first one and kept his finger on the one button the whole time. He told his father things were gonna be different from now on, unless he felt like getting another ass-fucking in the slammer. His father tried to explain that it was just a small-town, local jail and that kind of thing didn’t really go on, but Chad would have none of it.

Dejected and completely out of ideas, Chad’s father left the room. When he went downstairs, his wife showed him a 23 page booklet that their son had typed out for them, outlining the new rules of the house. Rule number one being that he, Chad Robuckle, was now in charge.

His parents really didn’t know what the hell to do. If they took his phone away, Chad told them he’d just hit himself with a baseball bat and say they did it. They thought about locking him up in a mental hospital or sending him away to juevenile hall but he informed them that if didn’t make a call every week at the same time to a certain newspaper, an envelope would automatically be opened by the editorial staff. He never said for sure what was inside, but once when he was drunk, he hinted that he “may have” taken pictures of himself in erotic poses and written a letter saying his father had done it.

So every day, Chad would push things a little farther and every day his parents would get a little more desperate. They could only let him go so far before they had to step in, often to protect their own safety or that of the other family members. When Chad tried to sell his sister to a Jordanian businessman, his father lost it and actully took him over his knee and spanked him. He made some idle threats about what would happen if Chad called the cops, but he knew he was screwed. Chad had been humiliated and wasn’t going to let it go.

Eventually the family reached a pattern where things would escalate for a few weeks, Chad’s parents would lose it and he would call the cops on them. His mother or father would be hauled off to jail, threats would be made and a kind of homeostasis would be reached for a little while.

The problem is, Chad called the cops so often, they began to get sick of him. They really didn’t want to go out there and arrest an innocent man or woman, just because their son was a brat but Chad was pretty knowledgable when it came to the law. He kenw his rights and more importantly, he knew what it would look like if an “innocent child” told a jury that the police wouldn’t come and help him when his parents were threatening him with bodily harm. Which, at this point, was actually true.

Finally though, everyone had had enough. When Chad became outraged that his allowance was only a hundred dollars a week, he decided to send a message to his parents by taking a dump in the refrigerator. His father, who now looked ten years older than he actually was, from all the stress his little bastard son had put him through, came home to find his son’s fecal matter all over the six pack of beer he had been reaching for and he just lost it. He ran up to Chad’s room with a hacksaw from the garage and held his son down on the ground and told him he was going to cut off his hands so he could never call the cops again. Chad was able to knee his father in the groin and push him off long enough to run away and lock himself in the Spankatorium with his phone. As luck would have it, this was also the day the police decided they had enough of his lies too, so when he called up, frantically begging for help, saying how his father was trying to cut off his hands, the cops told him to fuck off and hung up on him just as his father kicked down the door.

Ironically, having his hands chopped off was the best thing that could have happened to anyone in the Robuckle family. His father only served 3 months in prison and came out a brand new person, having discovered the Light of Islam. Chad’s mother met a nice Real Estate agent and they were married soon after. His sisters didn’t fare quite so well and now work at menial service industry jobs.

But the real winner, like always, was Chad himself. He got some cool, new robot hands and a 3 million dollar settlement from the town, as well as a public, personal apology from the former chief of police. But most importantly, he learned that it’s never right to call the police and pretend that your parents are fighting just to get one of them arrested so that they’ll give you whatever you want.

Wait a minute, no he didn’t.

Look what I found

If you know me in real life, then doubtless, you know about my intense hatred for my boss and arch-nemesis, Chad Robuckle. Chad is a fucking dick in every possible sense of the word. He’s a racist, sexist, homophobic asshole who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and has never worked an honest day in his life. Luckily for him, his dad owns the company I work for, Bordocom Industries. Anyway, I was looking through his desk after work and I came across this gem:


Dear Mythbusters,

I am a huge fan of your show, especially of that red-head chick, what the hell is that bitch’s name? Karen? Carol? Carrie? Whatever, I think she’s a lesbian anyway. So I’ve seen like every single episode of your show but there seems to be some very obvious myths you’ve yet to tackle.

First up, I would like to see you show everyone that this idea that women have some inalienable right to vote and drive is bullshit. Rights should be assigned according to abilities. I don’t claim the ‘right’ to cook dinner, clean the house or be a pain in the ass for four days every month, do I?

Second, the goddam liberal media is a fucking hipocrit (sic). On the one hand, they love to lambaste people like me for being “racist”, yet their own footage backs up my point of view 90% of the time. I am, of course, referring to this idea that some black people aren’t bad. Even the Associated Press pointed out this double standard that when black people steal food it’s “looting” yet when white people do it, they’re “finding food”. I’m not saying “double standard” in the sense that it’s bad, I’m all for it.

Finally, speaking of the liberal media, I’m sure they’d never let you do this last one because of the International Jewish Conspiracy, but I think someone needs to definitavely rebuke “the Holocaust”. I’m not saying there weren’t camps but even the Germans admitted they were just work camps. Why would the Germans lie? If six million people died, how come they still control the banks and the media and all those pro-Baby Killing groups? There wouldn’t be enough of them left. It’s just simple, common sense.

Anyway, I don’t expect you to do all these because nothing ever goes right for me. In fact, fuck you, don’t do any of these. Keep dropping your crash test dummy out of windows and stupid shit like that. And tell that whore with the red hair to go to hell.

Suck it,
Chad Robuckle.

What a dick, huh? The weird thing is, he’s also got a fully addressed and stamped envelope ready to go, post-marked from 2 months ago. I don’t know if he’s been debating whether to send this or if he just forgot or what. All I know is, when I show the head of the company this, Chad will get fired for sure. Oh wait, the head of the company is his dad who probably believes all this crap too and will just give him another raise.

Won’t someone out there give me a job?

Chad Robuckle: imaginary “friend”

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!