Why I'm kind of bummed England is out of the World Cup.
Honestly, this is probably the best story Sunday Scaries has put out yet.
Here you will find a heavily edited version of the police report I got after I was arrested at the ripe age of 18. I ended up not getting charged for anything because I white-person'd the fuck out of the judicial system, so we can sit back and laugh about this now.
For those of you who don't know who Wayne Rooney is, he's an English soccer phenom who gained his fame at the Euro 2004 tournament. I immediately took a liking to him while I was in France and Spain over that tournament, and he's been MAH BOY ever since, especially after the incident to your right.
I blurred out all the vitals because Sunday Scaries is relatively anonymous and I don't want to ruin any future employment opportunities. You guys get it.
Let me begin my analysis by saying that this whole situation was complete bullshit. So, without further adieu, here's my breakdown:
- Love that the police report says I'm 6-foot. I'm probably the shortest looking 6-foot dude ever, so people always question me when I rep it. This official court document clearly states that ya boy is 6-foot nothin' and no one can take that away from me.
- The notion that I was "falling into traffic" and "swaying the entire time" is unequivocally fictitious. In the words of the immortal Kid Rock, "I can drink a fifth of Jim Beam and still stand still." I'm not saying the officers were corrupt and taking liberties with this police report because anyone with a pair of eye balls can clearly see that the officers were corrupt and taking liberties with the police report.
- Because this was around Halloween, I was wearing a Wayne Rooney jersey. I actually think that my thinking could have been that the officers were just other students dressed as cops for Halloween, and they were asking what my costume was. I mean, that's sound thinking, right? It completely explains why I would say my name is Wayne Rooney.
- My date of birth answers are all over the map. The first one was just a list of numbers that didn't even make me 21, and the second was just a cocky, "probably 12-87". Actin' like those pigs were no sweat off my fuckin' back.
- If you know the layout of the Miami University campus, my answer to where I lived is just electric. Collins and Morris Halls couldn't be further from one another. Just refusing to show my cards at all times.
- How much of a power move is it to refuse to sign any and all documents acknowledging any wrongdoing? Like, no, I'm not signing your document, bro. You're not scratching my back so I'm sure as shit not scratching yours. If you want my fuckin' autograph then you should have just asked for it before you arrested me.
The worst part of this entire ordeal was the Sunday Scaries leading up to calling my dad and explaining what happened. When I called his office and asked how he was, he responded, "I'm actually doing great. I'm looking out the window right now and a family of deer are just eating outside in the woods." Like, he had ZERO clue I was about to completely devastate his day.
Was he pissed? I mean, yeah. But if you fast-forward 3 years, was the police report still on the fridge at our house? Of course.
PS. That night, I was hanging out with one of my best friends from Miami and she went to some artsy vocal singing camp with Paulina Gretzky (you know, Wayne's daughter / Dustin Johnson's girlfriend / dime-piece). So I asked my friend for her cell phone, dialed "Paulina Home", and said, "Hey, can I please speak with the Great One?" when his wife answered. Weirdly enough, I wasn't granted access to Wayne Gretzky and my friend never let me touch her phone again.