Getting Mugged to the Sounds of Jason Derulo: An Untold Story

The name of this website was somewhat arbitrary.

I’m not the one who came up with it. My good friend and co-founder of the site, Clark, thought of the name. We knew we needed to call it something and he threw out Stories For Sunday.

The idea being that Sunday is the day of the week that is meant for being lazy, perhaps doing one errand that will of course be treated like the hardest task in the world (usually laundry) and trading stories with your friends about all the shenanigans that ensued Friday or Saturday night.

The title was never meant to be taken too literally. We actually wanted to write about topics like television, movies, music, social and cultural trends, even politics and history at times. We wanted to attempt to challenge ourselves as writers while also having fun writing and sharing funny or interesting ideas about the topics we want to write about. Besides, if we actually used the site to simply talk about stories of us and our college friends getting drunk and rejected by girls then no one would take us seriously (not that anyone does now) and more importantly, everyone would think we are enormous douche bags.

But sometimes… there may actually be a story out there that might just be worth telling. I think I might have one of those stories. It has been buried deep in the “REGRET” memory slot of my brain (which is filling up fast). But I might just remember enough of it to share it with you all…

I will do my best to be as concise as possible while still filling you in with enough details to make sense.

It happened my sophomore year of college at Saint Louis University… I went to a party. The events of the party are totally irrelevant except for the fact that I consumed far too much alcohol to be able to spell my middle name, let alone make responsible decisions.

When I left the party with my friend (to protect his identity, I won’t use his real name, we’ll just refer to him as Jessy M.) who was just as inebriated as myself, we were trying to find our way back to campus. We were only about a four minute walk away, but understand that it’s been a while since St. Louis has won any awards for how safe its streets are.

While trying to invoke our sense of direction, we noticed two college girls who were noticeably drunk, even more drunk than we were, an accomplishment that even in our intoxicated state, we could appreciate. We noticed that they were talking to four very large men who had been asked to leave the same party that we were at earlier for starting trouble.

We saw the two drunk girls. We saw the four large men whom all kept smiling at each other and we assumed the worst. We decided that we needed to go over there and rescue those girls from whatever fate  seemed to be awaiting them. Jessy M is roughly the same size as myself, that is to say, not large.

At this point  I would like to remind you of a little something called Drunk Hero Syndrome. DHS causes the victim to assess any situation and dramatically deem it a Level 3 Code Red situation that needs to be handled immediately. Despite being extremely intoxicated, the victim immediately considers him or herself the most qualified to handle the situation. Doing so will make everyone applaud you as a hero and make them totally forget when you walked into the wall 15 minutes earlier.

So what I’m trying to say is that if these girls were just talking to mannequins from JC Penny, we probably would have legitimately thought they needed rescuing.

So we rescued them.

*It should be noted that Jessy M’s version of the story has the girls specifically asking us to pretend to be their boyfriends to help get them out of their predicament. I don’t remember this, but since it makes us look better, let’s go with it. 

I’m going to fast forward to the next day. I realized that I was mugged the night before. My wallet had about $30 in cash, my credit card, my real driver’s license and a very effective fake ID.

For the next few days I keep scouring the street that the crime had occurred on, hoping that the perpetrators took the cash and threw my wallet into a bush, which would make my life much easier. Each time I did so I had another little flashback of memory of the night my wallet was taken.

…I had already reported the crime to campus police with my version of the story, full of holes including the part where I’m blackout drunk. This is pretty much the exact response that I received:

A few days later, I found something. I was standing in an alley that I specifically remembered being pushed into by four large men. I looked up. There was a camera staring right at me. This was a huge breakthrough.

I entered the building. It was some random company that sold insurance to retirement homes or something like that. I told them I was robbed outside a few days ago and asked if I could see security footage. The building didn’t have a security team, they just had one of their employees who was also in charge of the security cameras if anything ever came up.

This was clearly the most exciting thing that has ever happened to this man at his job. I gave him about a six-hour window of when the crime could have happened and apologized for not being able to be more precise.

After a few minutes of fast forwarding we saw something. Then we slowed it down and watched again. We both looked at each other and the guy said, “I should probably call the police.”

As we’re waiting for the police something dawns on me. When the cops come they are probably going to  confiscate the video footage. Jessy M. had been grappling with the same “What the Hell Happened” questions I had. He deserved to see this video.

So I asked the guy, “Hey man, you think you could do me a favor? Can you maybe burn a copy of that disc so that I can have it for myself?”

The guy gladly obliged.

A female cop eventually arrives and berates me for reporting a crime four days after it had happened. She then left. I’m assuming that she is still searching the city, trying to make sure that I get my justice.

Obviously, I showed the video to Jessy M. But I didn’t show it to many people. I had what in retrospect, was a completely ridiculous bout of paranoia. See, the cop had referred to the event as an “ongoing case” and the video as “evidence for the case.” I’ve seen enough bits of Law & Order to know that spreading around police evidence with a bunch of friends can get you in trouble. So I tried my best to keep it a little bit quiet and made sure to over dramatically tell everyone who saw it, “Don’t tell anyone.”

This is the most random part of the story. At this time, Jason Derulo’s “Whatcha Say” was still getting air time. The video was constantly playing in my head. Randomly walking down campus I thought “we should edit that video so that “Whatcha Say” is playing in the background.

So we did.

Here is Jessy M’s account of the video’s creation:

“Days after the incident, Jonny received evidence that his wallet had in fact been stolen, and saved a copy of the surveillance video documenting this, which we watched countless times in an odd combination of horror and humor. As I recall, roughly a week later we were discussing the various flavors of Hidden Valley Ranch dressing when Jonny changed gears and mentioned that it would be neat to play the newly popular Jason Derulo hit single, “Whatcha Say”, on top of the video. Little did we know at the time the impact that the melody would have on the previously silent movie.”

This, folks, for the first time shown to a group of more than three people, is that video:

A few quick things to keep in mind while watching:

  • It’s a surveillance video so it’s a little grainy, but your eyes should adjust after a few seconds once you get a grasp of who is who. Watching it in full screen may make it easier to see. 
  • Jessy M. and I are the two Caucasian males in the video. Jessy M. is the one walking ahead with the girl and quickly leaves the frame of the video. I am the one who gets held back.
  • If you pause the video at exactly 0:45 then you can see a man reaching into my back pocket and taking my wallet.

A few highlights include:

  • The two men jumping up and down in laughter after pushing me into the alley at 1:07. I can only assume they were celebrating the accomplishment of being able to move someone with as much lower body strength as myself.
  • Jessy M. shaping his fingers like guns and pretending to shoot the men like a cowboy as he backs away at 2:06.
  • Simultaneously as Jessy M. is pretending to have six-shooters, I am trying to warn one of the girls that she is about to back right into a hand rail. She doesn’t  process my advice in time. 

So what really happened in that alley during those 20 seconds that the camera couldn’t catch? We’ll never really know for sure. My memory doesn’t go that far. My best guess is that while in the alley by myself, I stood no chance in a one-on-four fight, but when Jessy M. came back into the scene it became a two-on-four fight, which was much more manageable. The four men wanted no part of a fair fight and we all agreed to go our separate ways. 

If you were wondering what happened next. Well, we had trouble finding the most direct path back to campus. Probably 15 minutes later campus police approached us and assessed the situation. They took the girls in their car and left us in the street, clearly thinking they had to save these girls from the exact situation that we had just saved them from minutes earlier. 

But campus police officers were not the real heroes that night. We were. 

And those girls weren’t the real victims that night. I was.

I wish I could say there’s a moral to this story. But honestly, I’ve learned nothing. 

It’s just one of those stories for Sundays. 

Jonny Auping

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