My car got rummaged through this weekend, likely because I neglected to lock the door. They went through my glove box and grabbed my proof of insurance, state registration card, and my owner’s manual. Not sure what that’s going to do for them, but whatever. Also they grabbed my little crappy FM transmitter thing I used to play my iPod through the radio, which mostly allowed me to listen to my favorite song with smatterings to overwhelming portions of static depending on where I was in town. They didn’t take the stereo, probably because the tape adapter that I formerly used for my iPod (that actually worked really well) got stuck and caused the tape player to go tits up and fail (and my car is old enough not to have an auxiliary jack). And they didn’t get my sunglasses or spare change either.
Police were notified, a report filed, life goes on. Well, not really because Ninja Vicki saw me talking to the cops and got indignant about it.
“So what that all about?” Ninja Vicki said to me. “Why’s the Po-Po at your door?”
I relayed the first paragraph of this tale to her, but she interrupted me part way through.
“Oh, and I suppose you think I did it, eh?” says Ninja Vicki. “Shit gets stolen and every one blames the ninja. That is profiling, and profiling is wrong. Except now in Arizona.”
I explain to her that I know she didn’t do it because nothing of real value was taken. The insurance and registration forms can be replaced by my insurer and the DMV respectively, though their identity theft value is unknown but likely low. And she doesn’t have a car so a shitty ten dollar transmitter that plugs into the cigarette lighter is of no use to her either. Or a talking digital air pressure gauge for that matter.
“Okay… but you thought about profiling me for a moment, didn’t ya?” says Ninja Vicki.
I explain to her that I didn’t because I know that she knows if she was going to steal from me, she’d steal it from my house because that’s where I keep things that have some sort of value, like hockey jerseys or video games or jars of my man seed.
“Well, okay, but if someone steal those things, don’t automatically assume it’s me, all right?” says Ninja Vicki.
Come to think of it, if my jars of sperm went missing, I don’t think Ninja Vicki would be high on my list of possible suspects. In fact, I’m not sure who I would suspect. Cloners, perhaps?