Theft. Defined as the action or crime of stealing. An ugly word. Vintage, yes­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­—but with an ugly meaning.

     I had this brazen motto stuck on repeat in my head like a mantra: If you’re gonna do something wrong, do it right!

     I’m no philosopher; the phrase wasn’t my brainchild. Fans of Friends might recall Joey tempting Phoebe with a carnivorous sandwich during her pregnancy and uttering those very words.

     If you’re gonna do something wrong, do it right!

     Say it out loud.

     Say it clear.

     Think it again.

     If you’re gonna do something wrong, do it right!

     This takes us to the starting point of our story.

     If you choose to steal money (and yes, I use the word “choose” because life is about decisions), why aim for a tiny grunion when you could go for a great white? Go for the bank, the vault, the mine, the big score. The risk factor is identical—and if you think otherwise, you’re naively mistaken.

     Deciding between a low-budget scheme that a Cockapoo could conjure up, like hitting a cash register with a rubber pistol at a Skid Row drug store or something more elaborate like a colossal bank on Wilshire Boulevard, it’s a no brainer. You think the drug store owner will be any less pissed at you than the bank’s shareholders? Think again. One scheme just needs more planning, more savvy, more precision.

     Similar risk.

     More reward.

     Long-term reward.

     And don’t let your own ignorance and society’s warped views fool you into thinking that if you take the small-hit, the legal system will go easy on you. They won’t! Case in point, harsh penalties often await those who underestimate the system.

     I’m not preaching pulpit-opinion here—this is outright fact.

     Lived-It-Seen-It-Experienced-It-Fact!

     I was told, straight up, by a judge no less, “Mister Gray, let’s say you hit up your local 7-Eleven and swipe a pack of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups …”

     I never liked where this was going.

     I was silent.

     She continued. “You get home, conscience starts gnawing at you like a rat in a cage. You’re thinking hard, feeling like crap. You slam the brakes on the snack attack; no way you’re opening that package or taking a bite. Next day, you march back into that same 7-Eleven, find the manager, and spill the beans. He gratefully takes the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, puts ‘em back on the shelf where they belong, and you’re walking out feeling like a saint.”

     I looked at her.

     She looked at me.

     “Right?” she insisted.

     Thank the good Lord above I never answered.

     Because three long seconds later, her demeanor changed. She yelled, “Wrong!”

     I turned fifty shades of lobster-pink, my intestines felt like they’d done the tango with a tornado, and my knees turned into mashed marshmallows.

     Still, I was silent.

     “You think you did a good deed because you returned the damn chocolate, when the truth is you still stole in the first place … Theft is theft, Mister Gray! The crime was still committed!”

     Okay, made sense.

     Like I said before, If you’re gonna do something wrong, do it right!

     Prosecution’s a done deal when you get caught, no two ways about it. Sure, the value of the crime gets weighed, but don’t be fooled—there’s not a judge on the planet who’s gonna say, “Morning, Mister Criminal, thanks for sparing the bank up the road. So you pocketed a couple hundred with a toy revolver … Oh well, just be more careful next time, old chap.”

     Hell no, you won’t hear that! The law’s the law, and it doesn’t care about good intentions or mitigating circumstances. You break it, you’re gonna face the music, no matter what. That’s if you get caught.

     Wait …

     Unless you’re in Nigeria, that is. The low-budget scheme could actually get you a longer sentence. The judge will be all like, “You only tief couple hundred dollars from di register, gee? How so?”

     Pause

     “Well?” the judge will ask.

     Another pause—this one longer, bordering on the supremely uncomfortable.

     No reply from the accused Nigerian in the dock.

     “Well!” exclaims the judge. “Dat’s it den! Five years imprisonment! Next time, make you just go try another way!”

     If you’re gonna do something wrong, do it right!

     Let’s not turn this into a discrimination debate. I have nothing against Nigerians, just like I have nothing against the British, Australians, South Koreans, Swiss, or Americans. Type a few keywords into your search engine, and they’ll be labeled the number one fraudsters on the planet. Not according to me, but according to the stats.

     Fraud. Defined as wrongful or criminal deception intended to result in financial or personal gain. Another ugly word. Another classic—maybe with an even uglier meaning.

     Tomato, tomato, potato, potato—just semantics, I suppose.

     Let’s call the whole thing off.

     Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

     You get the point.