What If Aubrey Plaza Were On Criminal Minds Playing April Ludgate?
'The only thing Criminal here is your haircut,' she might say to that one guy. Here, we imagine a business-tripping April Ludgate trying her hand at some role-playing, and getting a wee bit more than she bargained for.
Seriously. Stop it.
I mean it, Leslie! I can already feel you judging me from hundreds of miles away, and I'm sure that when I finally make it back to Pawnee you're going to give me a big hug and tell me you're not mad, you were just worried, but we both know that's a crock of steaming seagull turds. So go scream into one of your handmade "A Woman's Place Is In The Oval Office" towels or drink some Earl Grey with a shot of schnapps or whatever you have to do to calm down...and then hear me out. Please? Don't you owe me that much?
Okay. Here's how it all started.
As you know (but I'll write it down so it's on the record), I was in D.C. for a few days because you just had to send me on a fact-finding mission to determine what Joe Biden's favorite flavor of M&Ms is...just so you could send him the perfect thank-you gift for favoriting one of your tweets. I didn't have the heart to tell you that he faves every tweet that mentions him (he probably has that app that automatically does it for you), but I'm telling you now because this whole unfortunate situation could have been avoided if I'd just leveled with you from the get-go.
Anyway. A girl gets bored on a boring trip like this, so one night I decided to entertain myself by popping into a fancy restaurant and chatting up the first guy I laid eyes on. (I can feel you judging again, so let me assure you that Andy has no problem with this kind of thing -- there's nothing sexual about it; I'm only doing it to improve my acting skills so one day I can get some of that J.Law money, buy the FBI, and hire Andy as a special agent.) As soon as I walked in, I spotted this doofus rocking some kind of Princess Bride-inspired haircut, and he was sitting alone nervously like he was waiting for a blind date, so I was like, "Game on, Prince Humperdinck." (He said his name was Spencer, but I refuse to believe that a grown man is actually called that, so I'm sticking with Humperdinck.)
The conversation began, and it took less than twelve seconds for me to surmise that he was just as hopeless as he looked. I felt so bad for him that I was about to walk away -- well, not before ordering him two bottles of Cristal; at least let me have a little fun -- but then homeboy starts talking about wanting me to kill his wife?! You better believe that my Skeletor boyshorts were glued to the seat from that moment onward. This was a full-attention, put-your-phone-in-airplane-mode situation. (I didn't actually do that, but I totally considered it.)
But my lifelong dreams of helping someone plot out a hypothetical slaying were not to be. I didn't even get a full minute of quality murder-talk before I found out that Humperdinck wasn't a disgruntled husband at all -- he was actually was a proud member of Team Windbreaker, a.k.a. the F-B-Motherbleeping-I. And because I'd been dumb enough to play along with his little murder game, he thought I was some kind of master hit-lady that he and his squad were trying to bring down! Well, crap on a noodle. I saw that I'd dug myself in pretty deep in a matter of minutes, and as far as I could tell, my best option was to keep on shoveling until I could see China.
Which means that, no, I didn't give up the game and tell him who I really was...and yes, Judgy McJudgerson, I know that's what I should have done. In my defense, though, I'm the best talker I've ever met. I've argued my way out of dozens of speeding tickets, scored a membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution even though I'm a direct descendant of Benedict Arnold, and convinced one of my co-workers that a feral cat was eating all her Activia. (Sorry about that one, Leslie, but they were delicious and you should have put a lock on the fridge.)
Back to the story. Humperdinck and his pals were legit about to arrest me, so I had to think pretty fast. Fortunately, all I'd eaten that day was two liters of Mountain Dew with half a bottle of ground-up Adderall, which meant that every second inside my mind was equivalent to about two hours of Normal-Brained Jackass time. I took a beat, dove into my memory banks, and pulled up every crappy TV procedural I'd ever half-slept through. "What did they all have in common?" I asked myself. Oh yeah, they all had that lame-ass bottle episode where the good guy is locked in a room with the bad guy, and they have some kind of battle of "wits." And usually there's some kind of a bomb. Well, I took those tropes and ran with them. You should have seen me, Leslie! I. Was. On. Fire. All these brilliantly cheesy lines just flew out of my mouth, like "I outflanked you from the beginning!" and "I needed a restaurant full of innocents in case this was a trap," and I even threw in a little "All men have gender bias" just for fun.
Oh, and I totally made Humperdinck squirm when I asked him all these probing questions about his tragic schizo mom. (Like, we all have tragic schizo moms, bro; don't let's be crybabies about it.) All in all, I think it's fair to say that I played the part of criminal genius pretty flawlessly. Humperdinck and his cronies got so antsy that they even grabbed up some poor random lady at the bar and confiscated her phone, because they were convinced that she was my partner! (Let me tell you, if I were a "black widow hitwoman" -- no seriously, that's how Humperdinck referred to me -- nobody in the world would be worthy of being my partner.) (Okay, maybe Donna.)
You want me to cut to the chase? Fine. The good news -- great news, really; I mean, let's not forget that I was surrounded by the actual F.B.I. -- is that I didn't get shot or otherwise killed. The bad news is that I'm writing this from a Supermax prison, where I'm being held on $5 million bail. And that may sound like a lot, but I bet you can get it together if you skim a little bit off the top of the Lil' Sebastian Anniversary Tribute fund. (Ron's a good negotiator; I bet he can talk Beyoncé into lowering her appearance fee.) Alternatively, maybe see if you can get Joe Biden to pull some strings. Never actually found out which M&Ms he likes, but my money's on peanut butter.
I'd like to promise that this will be the last time I do anything like this, but I think I've done enough lying for one long weekend.