Oh, strap in, because this tale of Darwin Award-worthy stupidity just got its well-deserved sequel in the roast department.
Picture this: 2:40 a.m. on Chicago’s Northwest Side, where the streetlights apparently double as spotlights for the world’s dumbest crime reenactments. Our hero—a 39-year-old concealed-carry licensed adult who actually understands cause and effect—is minding his own business, stepping out of his car like a normal human. Enter stage left: two evolutionary rejects from the neighborhood, who clearly peaked at “I saw this in a TikTok once.” One of these future organ donors yanks out a gun and demands the good guy’s belongings with all the confidence of someone who’s never heard of consequences.
Big brain energy, right? Wrong.
The would-be victim—bless his calm, well-trained soul—doesn’t clutch pearls or beg. He simply exercises his Second Amendment cardio and turns the armed genius into a human pincushion, lighting him up multiple times in the legs. There’s a reason Mr. Armed Robber was voted least likely to succeed in grade school.
But our good guy wasn’t able to make the perfect shot, he took what he had. He scored hits, which are what counts. Not the torso. Not the head. The legs. Because even when you’re defending your life, you can still end up with “you’re gonna limp for the rest of your short, stupid life” energy.
Both clowns scatter like roaches when the kitchen light flips on, except one of them is now auditioning for a crime scene blood-trail art installation in a Dexter reboot. Cops follow the crimson breadcrumb trail—because apparently this genius didn’t watch a single episode of CSI—and it leads straight to the back door of a house on North Lockwood like a sad, leaking GPS. Officers cordon off the place, because nothing says “we got you” like surrounding your mommy’s house at 3 a.m.
Eventually, the 23-year-old has had enough of his mom yelling at him for wrecking the furniture with his prolific bleeding. So Mr. Leg-Sieve decides that handcuffs and cops are better than an iron skillet over the head from an incensed momma. So he staggers out like a discount zombie and surrenders to reality (and paramedics). Off he goes to Illinois Masonic in “good condition,” which is doctor-speak for “you’re lucky we’re not writing your obituary.” The second suspect? Nabbed right there at the scene, because why stop at one felony when you can go for the combo meal?
No charges announced yet, investigation ongoing, blah blah blah. Translation: prosecutors are hopefully deciding how many felonies to staple to this walking cautionary tale. But in Cook County, you just never know.
So here’s the moral, delivered with zero chill: If your big life plan involves pointing guns at strangers at 2:40 a.m. to take their “stuff” and you live close enough to leave a blood trail home like a drunk snail, maybe—just maybe—reconsider your career path before natural selection finishes the job for you. Play stupid games at felony o’clock, win stupid prizes… and a very expensive limp. Congratulations, dipshinola. You’ve been officially outsmarted by gravity, ballistics, and basic adulting.
Thank you CWB for some of the details of this story.