Why do I do stupid things, things that I should know better than to do, things that I later regret, downright boneheaded things? I thought my conscience was reasonably well developed throughout my childhood, I mean I know right from wrong (and look, ma, I know it from my left, too!). But what if the problem is that my conscience, that little angel sitting over my right shoulder (right?) doesn’t even speak the same damn language I do?

Imagine, I’m poised to snag a liquor bottle and stuff it into my jacket before jetting out of the store. Suddenly, my conscience decides to start talking to me.

Hola, Ben? Stupido? No le robes la botella! Quieres ir al carcel? No se salgas de este tienda sin pagando por el licore!

Uh, dude? Ha ha, what did you just say? You want el Taco Bell? Right on!

Ay, cabron!

I mean, really, am I supposed to carry a dictionary around with me to translate for my conscience? C’mon. But worse yet, what if my conscience is… retarded?

Imagine once more, I’m poised to snag a liquor bottle and stuff it into my jacket before jetting out of the store. I ask myself whether I should or not…

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay! Bottle bottle bottle bottle bottle bottle bottle!!!!! Yaaaaaaaaaaay!

Shit, I’m in trouble!

Yaaaaaaaay! BOTTLE! Smash shee bottle on shee floo’! YAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

Whatever you say, conscience… [Smash!] YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!

Oh, I’m totally screwed.