I don’t recommend acting on this unless you’re flirting with disaster and have a few thousand dollars you can shell out for bail. Which—don’t let me be the judge—you might.
Disclaimer: I am not responsible for your systematic arrest, torture, and made-for-tv movie if you do choose to heed this post.
The entire process should take you no longer than 2:37. If it’s like a half hour, you’re not doing it right. Stick to ripping off penny candies at the 7/11. Here’s how to do it.
Walk into a Sunglass Hat wearing jeans that are hanging off you like the skin off a half-eaten chicken bone, and while you’re at it, make sure the skin on your face is doing the same. It’ll make you look ruggedly handsome (see corpse buried in woods) and distract people from your sneaky ploy.
Word to the wise: Make sure there are at least three other people in the shop. There’s seldom more than one person behind the till and she’ll have to keep an eye on you, the other three punks, and do sales at the same time. Impossible multitasking.
Scan the shelves for the most expensive sunglasses you can find. For whatever reason, Sunglass Hut doesn’t lock their lenses down, nor put magnetic chips, dye tags, RFID’s, or fresh lamb’s blood on them for that matter. So, naturally they make themselves an easy target.
Note: It would appear that Dolce and Gabana sunglasses while reeking of overinflated self-importance, happen to be of the most expensive variety. It’s like Jimmy Choo for your face. Weird!
If you’re Chicken-Bone Face (and you are), grab a $450.00 pair of D&G’s and talk loudly about how great they look on you. [They don’t. It’s like Willem Dafoe meets Kevin Federlein, but whatever makes you happy, you skinny prick]
Parade around the store in a hurry. Move your arms around a lot. Act like you really want these douchey sunglasses because they show off your tanned physique [when you haven’t seen the sun in seven years. Check the puncture marks on your neck, Chicken Bone. They aren’t fresh].
Quickly slip the sunglass bling onto your face whilst slipping off the pair that you stole from the Shoppers Optical last week and leave those cheapies on the counter as a decoy. Harder to track how many pairs are out that way. See? Then proceed to hand a third pair to the sales clerk—the ones “you wish to purchase.” Suckers.
Smell strongly of meth. No, not death. That one doesn’t score you any bonus points with the sales representative. The gasoline mint smell of meth throws people off. They’re not sure if they should put you out or unwrap you and pump their tank. Works wonders in enclosed spaces.
Make a grand gesture of paying with cash as you brandish your receipt-less box of high-end headphones that you also “just spent $500 on.”
Quickly mention that you just have to grab some cash from the cash machine to pay for them. You’ll be back in three minutes. The number three is key here, folks. The odd number shows you’ve put thought into how much time it will take you to walk to the bank machine, insert your card, punch in your ID, wait for the weird counting noise the machine makes while it debates whether or not you’re a threat to national security, and then eventually spits out ‘your’ money. Three minutes is a realistic guess. I’d venture more like eleven, but I’d still be duped by three.
While you comment that you’ll be back in three minutes, quickly slip another ugly pair of slightly-less expensive glasses into your chicken-bone pocket. Make sure you’re standing close enough to the till that you won’t be seen by that big old panopticon hanging from the ceiling or your ass is grass. Them cheap uglies won’t get much for street value. But damn, you have the equivalent of almost $800 of merchandise on your scrawny body. That’s something to celebrate over with a hit of meth. Oh, I forgot: you’ll have to sell those glasses for like $40 apiece to buy that meth, so don’t celebrate yet.
Final touch: as you stride towards the exit, throw your hands up in the air, look back over your shoulder and say something convincing like this while keeping your dignity intact, “my dad’s gonna kill me.” Then crack a shit-eating grin and don’t return for like a month. Nobody will ever suspect that you’re a 27 year-old drug addict living in Blood Alley. You did it, Chicken Bone! You robbed the Sunglass Hut.
If you haven’t figured it out, Travis and I witnessed a $1000 dollar robbery on Sunday. Just one of many I’m sure that nice young man committed in order to feed his $800/day [fill in drug of choice] habit. And no, I’m not mocking people with mental health addictions. If you’ll notice, I was mostly picking on him for his Chicken-Bone pants and his shitty taste in sunglasses.
By the by, the store owner never called security, didn’t take a description of Chicken-Bone, and pressed no magic red button under the counter. She shrugged her shoulders at my perplexed expression and said, “what can you do, uh?”
What can you do…?
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