Is it a Crime to Entertain America?


I have received a lot of grief from both the press and public this week after my son, Raptor, stole a prototype mini jet pack I invented and flew it over 30 miles till it crash-landed in a corn field.  The media storm was immense and the entire country was glued to their televisions as firefighters and emergency workers followed the jet pack to its crashing site.  And when the wreckage uncovered that it wasn’t Raptor on that jet pack but instead was an animatronic model of Raptor, (another one of my inventions) I suddenly became Public Enemy #1.

But Raptor was safe and sound at home.  If I was truly the monster you’re making me out to be, I would have allowed three-year-old Raptor to fly the perfectly-sized mini jet pack to his death, (and believe me, he begged!)  Nay, I spent months making the jet pack remote controlled, and spent thousands of dollars making a life-like double of Raptor.  But Raptor’s safety isn’t in America’s interest, is it?

My passion has always been to reflect my version of my life to the masses, a passion that got me on MTV’s The Real World at the age of 21.  But when I was kicked off the show for faking a heart attack, my opportunity was cut short.  After the novel I wrote,  [Censored]’s a Faggot’s Pussy, failed to garner any media attention, (Salman Rushdie was exceptionally popular at the time) I decided it was in my best interest to give up my dreams and start a family.  Thus started what I like to call my Suburban Hell years.

After months of trying to figure out a career choice, I settled on Inventor.  I would spend my hours in the basement with my many contraptions while my wife Sue would work her three waitressing jobs, (she’s not pretty enough to be a stripper and too cheap to buy the surgery.)

After two years of intensive tinkering, I came up with my masterpiece:  the cellphone answering machine.  Imagine:  you’re in the bathroom, occupied, and you hear your cellphone ringing in the kitchen.  What if one of your children is in trouble or the president is calling?  You’ll never know… until now.  With my device, which can be plugged into the bottom of any Nokia 3315 produced in 2001, up to thirty seconds (minus the personalized greeting) can be recorded by the caller after 3 rings.  However, the major cellphone carriers refused to stock my product because of its size (only the size of two medium suitcases, thank you) and the fact that it only worked a third of the time (studies I conducted proved that 2/3 of phone calls are of little import.  It’s called time saving, ever heard of it?)  They also cited something called “Voicemail”, which sounds suspiciously similar to my invention and I have since hired a lawyer to look into it.

The production cost of the cellphone answering machine prototype put me into crushing debt.  So, as any resilient American does in tough times, I maxed out my credit cards in order to hatch a scheme to make me famous.  When I launched the remote control jet pack with a model of my youngest son strapped to it, I knew I was on to something good.  And after I finally got the girl on the line at 9-11 to believe my story, it wasn’t long before the television news cameras came bursting through my door.  I felt a surge of testosterone run through my body.  I was ON!

The lights came on and the cameras were rolling, and I acted as if I wasn’t floating on a cloud with a screaming erection.  No, I put on a quivering lip and held my wife in my arm for support.  We were a team, intent on retrieving our son (who was sitting patiently in the attic with a box of animal crackers and a new Lego set.)  My fame rocket was flying over Pennsylvania, and teams of emergency vehicles and media trucks drove in hot pursuit, speculating, worrying and making me a household name.

When the news finally broke that Raptor was safe and sound and the emergency workers were chasing a robot, I wasn’t immediately labeled a hero, or even a genius inventor.  I wasn’t given a quirky inventor version of John and Kate Plus 8, or even the opportunity to argue with my wife on national television.   No, the gruff, barely high-school educated arms of the law shoved me into a police car.  I’m not sure what the charges will be, but no doubt they will be unfair.  Dear reader, though you may have felt scorn and disgust when the national media put on their spin machine to label me a demon, I ask:  Is it a crime to entertain America? While that total dweeb John Gosselin gets to ride jet skis and jam trashy women, I get to rot in prison.  If that’s justice, call me unjustified.


  • By Jim, October 23, 2009 @ 8:21 pm

    Raptor? LOL! This one was classic, my friend! :)

  • By jane, October 24, 2009 @ 5:14 am

    hilarious! one of your best so far!mom

  • By mbt, October 29, 2009 @ 5:31 am

    this is ridiculous and titsy.

  • By Michael, November 10, 2009 @ 2:50 am

    Heyyyyyy, waitaminute! This sounds an AWWWWWful lot like that “Balloon Boy” to me! Coincidence??? I think not… THEY’RE COPYIN’ YOU! YOU SHOULD SUE THEM!!! I’ll be yer lawyer! I’ll put the fear of Scott Stapp in ‘em! Lemme know when you wanna begin, Buddy!

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Copyright Tom Van Deusen 2014.