Kalah Allen
To the would-be thug teenager who pulled me off my bike on Fremont Street last night: I would have thought that while yelling, "You got money? You got money, bitch?" while holding your foster parents' house keys to my head you might have had the wherewithal to actually steal something from me. Say, my bike (worth about a grand). Or my messenger bag ($450, waterproof/breathable shell inside). Or at least my wallet ($16 and half a book of stamps. That's $1,469.70! Not bad for less than a minute's work. But in the 30 seconds or so it took for my friend's hollering to summon some passersby, you managed to get... nothing. Now I'm sure you're a good kid just out for some laughs, but if you keep up this hooligan-ish behavior, you will wind up in prison at some point, and what will you have to show for it? You'll have eight inches of throbbing repeat offender lust pumping you full of all manner of nasty diseases in the prison laundry room, that's what you'll have. I, on the other hand, will have my bike, my waterproof/breathable shell, and my wallet. And my freedom.—Anonymous