So I had snuck into this bullshit course that I barely attended. But within the confines of Stetson West, my coed dorm that was filled with hundreds of fellow undergrads, I was a fucking plebeian. I needed to be loved. And the fastest way to obtain love? You buy it. And I had the perfect way to achieve this.
Soon after arriving in Boston, I’d befriended a Haitian cab driver called Mr. Rock. And this fucker loved me. Can you imagine how shitty it is being a Haitian cab driver in Boston? How many Irish dickholes you have to deal with on a daily basis? All I had to do was show Mr. Rock the merest sliver of respect, and he was willing to do any fucking thing for me. His loyal Crown Victoria became my personal limousine, available at any time of the day or night. I’d just make a quick phone call, and he’d ditch whatever fare he was ferrying and come and get me. Then we’d go and pick up a couple of quarts of good Haitian rum and shoot the shit for a few hours.
Remember, I was barely eighteen at this point. And unlike New Hampshire, Boston appeared to give a shit about underage drinking. I considered this to be the ideal access point to gain the attention and respect of my student brethren. By getting them good and drunk. Justin Lee had arrived in Massachusetts, and he would be recognized.
But there was a small, if nagging, problem. I was surrounded by assholes. The pricks in my dorm were happy to partake of my illegally obtained rum or any other liquor I could supply via Mr. Rock, but they didn’t give a shit about me. I was just the chump provisioning booze, and once the drink ran out they dropped me like a hot latke. This kind of maneuver may have worked with the kids back at Brewster Academy, but if I wanted to run with the big dogs, or at least convince the big dogs how great I was, I’d need to think of something trickier.
Luckily, I had a near neighbor in the dorms who was utterly fucking corrupt. It turned out he had the skills, equipment, and motivation to make fake IDs. But he lacked the sales prowess to turn these little plastic rectangles into a gold mine. We went into business together. He’d churn out the merchandise, and I would find us prospective customers. I figured that rather than simply handing out free booze just like that guy—wait, what was his name? Oh yeah, Jesus. Rather than handing out free booze like that hippy, if I could provide a resource that guaranteed unlimited booze to the holder of the illegal identification, I’d soon be catapulted to campus hero status.
Of course, there was a slight catch. The entire legal system. Since those dicks had driven planes into various high-profile buildings and a completely innocent Pennsylvanian field, officialdom didn’t look too kindly on any sort of fake identification. In fact, it was a felony in Massachusetts to make and distribute this sort of stuff. Even if it was only to college kids looking to buy a case of Mad Dog, if we got busted doing this, it would mean serious shit. But I thought it was worth rolling the dice to make a little bit of a splash in this new environment.
So we whipped up a batch of the contraband—and they looked beautiful. Sure, if you flipped them over, you’d discover they were on the back of an expired Blockbuster Video card and they lacked a hologram or an official stamp, but any shortsighted or lazy or slightly backward liquor-store clerk would almost certainly be taken in. With a bit of luck. But before we could start distribution, we needed to test the stuff. And as I was the charismatic one in the partnership, it was up to me to see if these fucking things flew.
I selected a pretty-bland-looking bodega that was far enough away from campus that I wouldn’t be instantly branded as a dumb Northeastern student trying to buy booze illegally with a crappy fake ID. I dressed like an adult and selected a bottle of wine. A good bottle of wine. A thirty-dollar bottle of wine. Just one. And no small talk. No nervous babbling about the weather or sports or the knockers on that chick in the parking lot. I picked a classy beverage, dropped it on the counter, and instantly reached for my ID. I didn’t wait to be asked. I was wise to the protocol and knew what needed to happen.
But this guy, shit, I don’t know what happened, but he was onto me. Maybe it was a problem in the bedroom at home. Maybe the owner had just chewed his ass out for selling to underage delinquents. Maybe he remembered that he was a shit-poor clerk in the butt end of Boston, and I was some privileged jackass buying fancy wine he could never hope to understand or enjoy and I probably had some hot, rich bitch in my Beemer outside that I was getting ready to poke. I don’t know the reasons, but this asshole wasn’t buying it. Something didn’t add up, and he got all CSI on my ass.
But he was sneaky. He didn’t throw the fucking thing back over the counter at me or laugh in my face or instantly call the Feds. He asked for a second piece of ID.
“Store policy,” he said.
And this is where I truly fucked up. At that point I should have made my excuses and left. “Oh, my other ID is out in the car”—that kind of shit. But instead, like the fucking wetdicked, naive infant that I was, I panicked and handed him my college ID. My real, legitimate Northeastern ID. What the goddamned hell was I thinking? As well as instantly placing me in the wrong age range, it also provided this douche bag with all my contact details.
He looked at it, looked at me, looked back at it, and then said the fateful words: “Something isn’t right here.”
Then he reached for the phone.
Of course I did what every true, red-blooded American would do in that situation. I ran. I bolted the fuck out of there and didn’t stop until I was back in my room. The cops arrived a couple of hours later. At first I pretended I wasn’t there. This just pissed them off further. So eventually I opened the door to two Suffolk County deputies who, like most law enforcement officials, hated me instantly.
“What took you so long?” I asked.
To their credit, they didn’t drag me through the dorm and bang me up overnight. I could have gotten arrested. I actually think my stupidity saved me. They knew that some big counterfeiting mover and shaker wouldn’t be so dumb as to use their college ID alongside their fake one. They gave me a “notice to appear,” which meant I’d be heading to court.
Luckily, for me, the law is completely biased in favor of rich, disgusting, white assholes like myself. I don’t know if you realized that. Hey, I don’t make the rules. The worst thing I had to face was breaking the news to my family, and after a few hours of anxious Jewish whining and disappointed berating, they provided me with a decent lawyer and a game plan.
First, I had to talk to the detectives assigned to my case and go over all the details of the incident before we all went to see the judge. Incredibly, even though these people are trained to detect bullshit from two towns over, I completely bullshitted them. I gave them the vaguest descriptions of the people I claimed to have gotten the merchandise from (I never ratted out my coconspirator; even I have some values), saying one was black, one was white. Youngish, colorful clothing, sneakers. That kind of crap. And they ate it up. They jotted it all down and even thanked me for my cooperation! If nothing else came out of this miserable business, I was proud of the fact that I had completely bamboozled a couple of veteran cops who totally ate up the lies I was sending their way. The lesson learned here: some cops aren’t that smart. Highly dangerous, but not that smart.
So I got dragged to court. There was a slap on the wrist and no record. My lies to the detectives convinced the judge that I was just a dumb teen after some cheap hootch, not a felony-level manufacturer of false IDs. They believed that I was just an idiot who got out of his depth. Which, frankly, I was. There might have been a small fine or something, but basically I got away with it.
Yeah, I was learning a lot. Not in the realms of entrepreneurship (obviously) but life lessons in how not to direct my college career. I had swung and struck out. My booze connections via Mr. Rock and my fledgling criminal career had both ended in ignominy. I decided to do something so completely against my own nature, it sickens me to think about it. It was a combination of desperation and sheer panic. I was ready to try anything, and I really went left field. I decided to go legit. Biggest mistake of my fuck
ing life. Listen to me, this is important: never go legit. Never try to curry favor by traditional, well-established means. It is always doomed to failure. I had to learn the hard way. Don’t make the same mistake I did.
So how did I decide to win over the denizens of Stetson West? To get them to respect me and become their god? I ran for dorm president. Now, you might be asking, “What the fuck is dorm president?” I honestly don’t know. But I thought it might provide a toehold in the social standing of the dipshits living around me. As you can imagine, entering a popularity contest is a terrible way to gain popularity. I was instantly branded a dweeb, a cock-knuckle, and a grasping, terrible tool. All monikers I completely deserved. Once I was in office, I would have the position and prestige to fuck things up from the inside. Was I deluded? Of course! I was eighteen! Have you ever tried to talk to an eighteen-year-old? Unless they’re female, Swedish, and boneable, it’s really not worth it.
But for once, luck was on my side. Unsurprisingly, no other idiot wanted the fucking job, so I was the only asshole on the ballot. The only one. Perhaps this lack of competition should have tipped me off to the quality of the gig. But at least I was guaranteed to win.
But then the bitch stepped in.
Who was the bitch? Fuck knows. Some twat who decided to fuck with me for her own despicable reasons and whose name I have subsequently suppressed into invisibility. But this bitch decided it would be hilarious to make herself a last-minute write-in candidate. The day of the vote she suddenly rolled up, shoved her tits in the faces of a few freshmen, squealed “Vote for me,” and fucking won. I was the only name on the ballot, and I lost. As elections go, this one was not exactly an ego boost.
I’d been completely humiliated, and rather than being the elected king of Stetson West, I was a fucking laughingstock. The prick who had run uncontested and lost. So this was the state of mind I was in when the great Super Bowl riot took place—crushed, defeated, and out of ideas. My lowly position amongst my peers had actually dropped lower. Which was one of the mitigating factors in channeling this confusion and rage toward those footballing pituitary cases full of malt liquor and misplaced bravado. And if the disastrous election had given me one thing, it was a powerful megaphone that I could now use to provoke the delinquents down on the street into violent, antisocial behavior.
So yeah, I fucked up. My actions did indeed make me a legend at Northeastern. I was the riot guy. If I hadn’t been instantly suspended, I might have gotten the occasional high five. And thanks to my ill-judged fake-ID scam, my name was known to the local authorities and I was looking at a serious offense. Again I had to crawl to Daddy and demand legal assistance or drag the family name through the mud. And once the judicial wheels were in motion, I tried to find a way of turning the whole shitty mess to my advantage. My defense team convinced me that community service was the best result we could expect, but there was no way I was going to be picking up trash alongside I-93 in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit next to a crack whore. That was inconceivable.
I knew there must be a way to serve my time and get a tan while I was doing it. That’s when I came across Habitat for Humanity. In addition to honorably providing roofs to the toothless and the red of neck, they also had a few international projects, including one that was about to start in Brazil.
Brazil. Fucking Brazil.
One thing I knew: Brazil was warm and far away. I could sign up for a tour of duty so the court would be satisfied I was serving my sentence, and the charity would think I was some sort of decent human being. It was win-win. By liberally lying to all parties concerned, I was soon on a plane heading south. (I was nearly arrested during the flight, which you’ll hear all about when JewJetting is discussed). After two flights, a bus ride, and possibly a passage on a fucking donkey (the details are hazy), I arrived in a small village somewhere around Juazeiro do Norte, which, roughly translated from the Portuguese, means “the middle of fucking nowhere.” The locals had never seen a white face before. I was far away from home, in a completely alien place, waiting to get busted for my litany of lies at any second. And you know what? I had a fucking blast.
Look, I was surrounded by good-natured volunteers who didn’t know what a monster I was. We could drink and eat for practically nothing. Obviously I soon ascended to the role of project supervisor (self-appointed), so I’d work on my tan while I watched Gentiles nail walls together and counted down the hours until I was free. I considered sending the scrotal judge a postcard, featuring me on a sun-kissed beach, a parrot on my shoulder, and a caption reading, “Really enjoying my community service! Thanks!” But I thought better of it.
The fucking balls on me, right? Rather than being sexually assaulted in a Massachusetts penitentiary, I was sipping caipirinhas. I mean, that has to be recognized as some kind of achievement. All I had to do was get a note detailing the hours I’d worked on official Habitat for Humanity letterhead, and I’d be in the clear. And of course, as these were decent, God-fearing people, they obliged. I served my time and I survived.
But, inevitably, there were repercussions. That was the end of my tenure at Northeastern University. I was kicked out for creating widespread havoc and general fuckupery. And after a painful meeting where I had to explain myself and my rather unusual expulsion record while pledging myself to good behavior, I was accepted by the University of Hartford. This was my safety school, my fallback position, my plan B. I decided I wasn’t going to fuck up.
Well, let me clarify that. I decided I wasn’t going to fuck up on campus. Officially, as a University of Hartford student, I would be squeaky clean. Keep my head down and do as little work as possible to achieve a passing grade. But outside the grounds of the delightful Connecticut educational establishment, I lived the life of a hellion.
First, I bagged a remarkable apartment in Hartford. I know that doesn’t sound impressive, but this place was an absolute pussy moistener. Up on the twenty-sixth floor, which in that particular part of New England was like the eightieth floor. Decked the whole place out like the Playboy Club, but without the inherent fear of hepatitis and sexual assault from Hugh Hefner. Perhaps it was the influence of this swinging pad, or perhaps it was because there was absolutely nothing else to do within a hundred miles, but I started to frequent the local Indian-reservation casinos. I’d drive my Audi S4 at some ludicrous speed to Foxwoods or Mohegan Sun and drop a grand on blackjack or craps and then speed back downtown.
I basically thought I was Sam Rothstein. I befriended the local nightlife bigwigs in Hartford (they do exist) so I never had to pay for a drink (not that I could anyway—I was still underage). So I was gambling like a teenage Arab sheikh, banging cocktail waitresses, staying up until dawn at some glitzy hostelry, and eventually crashing in my high-rise bachelor pad. Oh, and occasionally making an appearance at school. But I didn’t worry about that too much. My off-campus education was far more beneficial to my later life.
It was a pretty sweet situation, which I obviously had to fuck up. What’s the overarching factor that you associate with late nights, gambling, fast cars, and general douchery? That’s right: I developed a staggering coke habit. I mean, a respectable one. Blow became a significant accessory to my life. I’d never leave the house without it: keys, shades, fake ID, beautiful vial of coke.
I turned into the quintessential cocaine asshole. All my friends were coke friends. All the girls I fucked were coke girls. I was a sweating, burbling skeleton. For the first time since my infancy, I was starting to look like shit. I don’t look good when I’m underweight. My face gets thin; my collarbones start to resemble oversized chew toys.
What I needed was a wake-up call. And I got one that resembled a crack whore blowing a tuba in my ear after an unfortunate one-night stand. I was deep into the depths of my coke phase. I was shit bored and headed to the casino. I hopped in the Audi, did a line off the steering column, and drove 130 miles per hour up to the front door. I immediately lost a grand on a bullshit hand of blackjack. I got royally annoyed
, started to shout at the staff, and was quietly asked to leave.
I hopped back into the Audi. Hit 140 miles per hour on the highway home. Still had a nice full bag of coke in my pocket and was feeling pretty invincible. My Valentine 1 told me there were no cops on the road. Just green lights all the way.
Then the fucking blue lights hit my rearview mirror, and my dick went soft.
You sober up pretty fast when you realize you have an eight ball of cocaine on your person, you’re drunk, your $500 radar detector malfunctioned, and you’ve just been moving faster than Dale Earnhardt Jr. with a firecracker in his rectum. I couldn’t throw the shit out the window—it was too late for that. I was suddenly pulled over on the side of the road, and a Connecticut state trooper was moving toward me. Fast. And he didn’t look too cheery.
I had a brain wave. I don’t know where it came from, whether divine intervention or my own delicious brain suddenly firing into action, but I started to act automatically. I reached under my seat and pulled out a shit cell phone I’d left in the car. It was a burner I’d taken to Brazil to beg for bail or ransom if anything had fucked up down there. It had a tiny amount of battery. The gods, or whatever higher power looks after ridiculous shits like me, were smiling. I dialed 911 and blurted out, “I just heard shots fired on Route 2 at exit 12, and I think there’s an officer involved.”
Then I hung up and dropped the phone just as the cop battered on my window with fury.
“License and registration right now!” he screamed at me. I handed them over, and he walked back to his vehicle. He was there for a second, then ran, ran back to me. He gave me back the documentation.
“I have another emergency. Consider yourself really fucking blessed,” he spat at me, and waddled back to his car and sped away, siren blaring.
Look, I figured if I got busted, calling in a fake 911 report taking place at the next exit along wouldn’t mean shit compared to possession of coke and driving under the influence. I would be in bad-boy jail. Not the prissy, white-collar place reserved for privileged pricks like me. I drove home at fourteen miles an hour with my asshole the size of a pinhead.
Don't You Know Who I Think I Am?: Confessions of a First-Class Asshole Page 5