Hey buddy!

Having a house party this weekend? Well, if you are and you don’t believe in the forceful redistribution of wealth, make sure you don’t invite me; I’m a friggin’ kleptomaniac!

But before you memorize my face and padlock the fridge, hear me out. I’m no rebel without a cause, even if I am eyeing your James Dean DVD box set.

Sure, I steal things from strangers and casual acquaintances — a coaster here, a Hunter S. Thompson paperback there — but when I do, I’m just doing my part to fight the power. Believe me, it’s not personal. Every piddling foodstuff or novelty item I take is not an affront to a gracious host, but a direct jab at the Madison Avenue consumerist “Man” who’s standing between that host and simplified life of keg beer, bipedal transportation and total consciousness.

I’m very selective in the items I choose to steal, or as I prefer to call it, “redistribute.” Indeed, different situations demand different forms of thievery and objects to be taken.

For example, just a couple weeks ago, I found myself at a small gathering of friends. On a reconnaissance mission — disguised as a altruistic beer run for a friend across the room — I noticed a doggy-bag brimming with Chinese food in the refrigerator. In no time, I was digging into a still-warm box of chicken fried rice. Now don’t misinterpret this as a selfish act — I was just looking out for the little guy. The little guy just happened to be me in this particular situation. You see, I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and whoever had this Chinese had obviously just eaten — so much so that they couldn’t even finish the meal. I’m a modern-day Robin Hood, fighting capitalist injustice!

Perhaps a better example of redistribution in action involves a spring-time keg party and a 10-ounce jar of Peter Pan peanut butter. There I was: at a party run by capitalist pigs who were selling overpriced cups of beer to poor 20-year-olds with no other options. After surveilling the grounds, I did what any socially conscious person would do — I jacked a jar of creamy peanut butter and got the hell out of there. As I walked down the street with my liberated spread, I saw a group of kids standing on a balcony. They didn’t look particularly emaciated or sandwich-deficient, but I figured it was just the midnight darkness impairing my vision. I tossed the jar up to them and, as expected, they were supremely grateful.

My Marxist kleptomania goes well beyond the kitchen, however. Recently, I’ve found the bathroom to be an ideal place to start the revolution. I’m a repeat offender when it comes to stealing unused Mach3 razor blades. These implements, with their absurd triple-blade shaving system and protective skinguard, are a microcosm of our over-industrialized, gimmicky consumer society. With each blade I pocket, Procter & Gamble shudders just a little bit, and culture is just a little more free.

Redistributing cleaning products is another noble bathroom pursuit. I once lifted a bottle of Old Spice Body Wash from a party, and I encourage the practice to everyone. Capitalists have gotten rich off squelching the natural odors of the proletariat, and I, for one, am sick of it.

And just so you know, I too have been the object of a kleptomaniacal struggle for Marxian bliss myself, and let me tell you, I’m OK with it. For instance, I once possessed a “Speed Limit 35” street sign (the product of an earlier redistribution, heh heh heh) and proudly, perhaps a little too proudly, put it on display. One day after a social gathering, I found it missing. But rather than confront the craft revolutionary who made off with it, I applaud him. His action was a definitive step toward our property-less utopia, and karma in action.

So before you, kind host, ban me from your party, consider my motivations and ask yourself, “Do I really need that September 2003 issue of ‘Maxim’?”