Asshole of the Week

Normally our Asshole of the Week has done something to wrong groups of people: children, charities, whole cities—or, sometimes (actually, many times) they wrong poor defenseless puppies and kitties. But our socially contentious moralista Miss Erica M has the day off today, and I'm steering this wagon right down selfish hill. So, douche-monkey fuck-tard who swiped my bag at the Electric Factory last night, you're right up there with kitten torturers and SEPTA. Feel good about that, do you?

Sure, I should know better than to put my bag at my feet (but for the record I wasn't the only victim last night). That doesn't excuse the fact that you took it right out from under me. Literally right out from under me. Yes, I had a fancy looking camera in one hand and an iPhone in the other, but that doesn't mean I had a big wad of cash in my purse for it to be worth taking. Seriously, dude, did you not notice I wasn't even drinking while you were casing me out? Rich people drink stupidly expensive concert cocktails. Poor people abstain. Poor people also cry when they get home from being robbed and can't get into their house at 1 a.m. because someone accidentally locked the front door even after I called to warn them not to.

I hope my four-year-old iPod with the cracked face explodes in your back pocket. I hope the Marc Jacobs sunglasses I bought myself a year and a half ago to celebrate my new job gouge your eyes out. I hope you try to wear my extra small winter jacket and it smothers your lungs. You deserve it for taking my keys and leaving me stranded. For my trip to the dreaded DMV to replace my driver's license. For the automated systems I had to suffer through in the middle of the night to cancel all my credit cards. For the shame I experienced at having to tell my awesome boss, "Hey, I know you trusted me with your corporate card, but guess what—you're gonna have to cancel that ASAP." For the lock on my house that needs to be changed lest you want to rob me further, for the sleepless night I had worrying about whether or not my car would still be where I left it in the morning, and for the locksmith I had to call to get back into my car that made me late for work. And most of all, for making a girl cry. You deserve all these horrors and more. Nothing would make me happier than to find out you were strangled in your sleep by my headphones or that my wallet grew fangs and ate your face.

Even though I had the shittiest concert experience in the history of my concert experiences—and I'll have you know, I've had a few bad ones (no fault of the band, by the way. AFI was tremendous, and I'm sorry I missed the encore in the chaos)—there were a few bright spots in the night. To Dan, the guy who raised the alarm: you sir, are a gentleman and a fine, fine citizen. Not only did you stick around to give a description of said asswipe to the cops (even though we both knew it probably wouldn't help any), you offered to get my eerily composed yet angry self your sweater because I was jacketless and freezing in the cold, damp night air. You, along with helpful security staff at the Factory who found my empty, but beloved vintage heirloom bag in the garbage, the 911 dispatcher and police officer that (contrary to previous experiences here at Phillyist) responded in the speediest of fashions, and friend Ben who rescued me from the evil city and lent me a ride home, give me hope for humanity. Gutter punk with the bad hair who swiped my shit: you give me none.