The Infinite Wisdom of Do-Gooders.

A few weeks ago, I got a call from my old roommate. I was watching a movie and eating at the time, and my phone was across the room, sitting on my dresser for some odd reason, and so I didn't answer it. Minutes later, I checked the new voicemail that popped up on the screen, and heard this: "Jon- it's Steve. The cops were just here at the house, looking for you, actually- I guess someone called them about your blog, so I just wanted to let you know. You might wanna take it down, or whatever. I don't know- give me a call."

Called them about my fucking blog?! What?! Why?!, I wondered. Oh, shit! The Bert blog! In the course of a few seconds, a number of things flashed across my memory that led me to believe that this definitely was the blog in question: pissed off emails from Steve's girlfriend about disrespecting him by "beating" his dogs, a cowardly anonymous comment left on said blog chastising me for my reactionary actions towards the dogs, and the realization of just how much I fictionalized my cruelty towards the dogs in the blog based on the incredible amount of anger and sadness bearing down on me as I wrote the farewell letter.

Fuck.

I went immediately to the miraculously online computer and took the blog down. Feeling somewhat relieved and even more paranoid, I cautiously peered out the front door to check for any police that might be slowly approaching my house, creeping, ever-so-silently, lest they clue me in to their presence. No one. I sat down on the porch to smoke a cigarette. Then I began to think: Why did I take that down? You can't get arrested for a blog! That's total bullshit! And who in the FUCK called the cops on me??! What the hell is wrong with people? I decided to call Steve, who assured me that it was neither he nor his girlfriend that ratted me out to the fuzz. Furthermore, he informed me that the cops had arrived at the house with dog requisition equipment (a term I just made up- sounds more official), required Steve to step outside while they checked on the condition of the dogs, and finally, after sorting through all the various bits of information that are required upon a visit from the boys in blue, asked him if he wanted to press charges against me, which he refused. Of course, there would have been no evidence to do so anyhow, but nonetheless, it saved us both a lot of time and trouble, not to mention any great amount of ill-will that would have surely come of that.

We then began ruminating on just who might have called the cops on me. Steve told me that the cops said that they had just gotten the call that very day, which means, if true, that the rat was over two months late in reporting my heinous written crime. We then speculated that perhaps someone had reported the abuse to the SPCA, who then filed a complaint with the police department, who in turn, in the true bureaucratic fashion of governmental agencies, filed it away under "Things to Do Right After You've Ticketed Everyone in The Area Who Has Parked the Wrong Way on the Street," and so now showed up at the offender's address.

Er, old address. Here's the rub of it all, the mystery, the unknown, the goddamned X-factor. Whoever it was that did their civic duty by phoning in an awful crime, perpetrated by a cold-blooded, merciless would-be serial killer, or worse-terrorist!- didn't know me all that well. Perhaps they were worried about getting murdered. Who knows? They did, however, know me well enough to know where I used to live. The cops surely didn't get that information from pulling me up in their system. My license still says I live in Arlington (I keep this license so I have more time to get away with all the horrible crimes I commit. It's boring, but it's my life..), and none of the bills at the house were under my name. The only things that bore that address with my name were my credit card bills, and that's it. Sure, with enough sleuthing, I'm sure the cops could've found that information out, but I can assure you that the investigation never got that deep, especially when the the complaint comes from an individual's speculation based on what they read on A B L O G.

And so, on an inquisitive note, Steve and I hung up the phone, no closer to an answer, but at least my paranoia was greatly allayed. I cringed to myself, went "Psh," and immediately returned to the computer and reposted the blog, and nothing has come of it, nor will anything.

That's just some expository information for you, the reader, to ingest. This post is actually meant for the person who knows all this stuff already. Yes, you- yeah, the windbag, candy-ass piece of shit that called the cops on me for no fucking reason. The anonymous ship in the night, the miserable, self-loathsome puke that punches you in the back of the head after you think the fight's over. You know who you are- and guess what? So do I! You don't know me, and you never will, so why don't you just keep your grubby, lonely paws out of other people's business? Now, if you want to make any of this your business, I offer an open invitation, yet again, to you faceless heroes, to feel free to contact and talk to me personally. You know how to do it. Shit, it wasn't hard for you to find my address, huh, so it shouldn't be too hard to track down my phone number, or my email address, or even my Myspace page, right? I'll do ya one better: jgpool@gmail.com. No excuses now!

If you can unveil yourself, you stalwart of truth and goodness, I shall be happy to make your acquaintance and explain a number of things to you from my own mouth that might possibly shed some light on your dim wits. But I know you, and so does everyone else. You'll stay in your little gutter and just stab at people's ankles with a rusty pocketknife as they walk by right before rushing back into the murky shadows, carefully nursing your adrenaline boner.

Get your facts straight before you play the saint, douchebag. Had you read my other blogs, you could've saved yourself an incriminating, recorded, part-of-the-public-record-and-so-therefore-available-through-the-Freedom-of-Information-Act 911 phone call. You see, in an earlier blog that I wrote, I was shot in the head with a .12 guage shotgun, and as I attempted to drive away from the scene of the crime, my vision blurred and finally disappeared altogether. Because I DIED. Fucking moron.