phwoar
What are some creative ways to hide your ankle monitor? 😂
Ha! Another wannabe Al Capone approacheth!
An ankle monitor, you say. Hiding it, you say.
I bet you'd just tried your luck at a glamorous bank heist or something, hadn't you. And discovered the hard way there's a teensy bit more to bank robberies than waggling a blackfaced water pistol and shouting "ALL RIGHT YOU MOTHER STICKERS, THIS IS A FUCK UP!"
Fast forward two months. Your criminal trial's news coverage just went viral because a reporter managed to record the judge admitting that she'd sentenced you to mere house arrest for your banky crimes, because the trial's security-cam footage of your attempts to smuggle five thousand gold bars in your urethra made her laugh so hard that she'd literally pooed herself and orgasmed and threw up and queefed. She just couldn't resist whispering to the reporter that she just couldn't resist sentencing you to below-minimum-security incarceration, in the feverish hopes that in your apartment-escape attempts, you might just attempt a clandestine orificial re-enactment, and perhaps smuggle yourself across your domestic threshold ensconced within your own left nostril. Catching this on camera might prove hilarious enough to help Her Honour swan-dive orifice-kersplodey-Nirvana once more.
And now you're Her Honour's cuffed human plaything.
I mean look. Who doesn't find the fictional Criminal Mastermind archetype darkly fascinating? Check out Ian Fleming's fascinating per-ethnicity prose on that very topic, in his James Bond novel Live And Let Die. Fictional super-duper-criminals are suave and alluring. We all know that. They'll serenade you outside your boudoir and machine-gun their telephone number into the wall. They'll whisk you across town in spangly limos to spanglier nightclubs. They'll choreograph mighty punch-ups whilst incredibly tuxedoed. They're badass. They're raw. Of course you faceplanted their dark allure, Ms. Cierra. Who'd not yearn for a piece of that flashy fiction-action?
But non-fiction? As most cops will tell you, real-life criminals are morons.
You too, eh, Ms. Cierra? Now look. Bam. Ankle monitor. That'll teach you to be a crap crim, missy.
But okay. You didn't come to me for excoriation, more's the pity. You'd like counsel. Okay then. Concealing your ankle monitor. Let's do it. Why not take inspiration from Sherlock Holmes? Charge to the opposite extreme. Sheathe your boring ol' real ankle monitor within a thicker, hollow fake one, of quite astounding glamour and flamboyance. Spangle your glorious decoy with glitter and rubies and perhaps a few air-raid sirens and with brilliant neon-strobe letters flashing eye-splitting and ear-splitting messages like FUNKIER THAN THOU, and FOR COOL CAT CRIMS ONLY, and NO YOU CAN'T HAVE ONE YOU'LL GET THIS OVER MY DEAD BODY SUCKAHS. No-one will ever believe there's a real monitor within.
Either that or take a leaf out of the book of the Kayan people in Myanmar. You know. They're the crowd where their female members stretch out their necks to absolutely absurd lengths over many years by wearing a gazillion metal neck rings. Some Kayan-ladies can headbutt the Moon.
If you're keen on extra-stretchy ankles, then why not do the same? Commit a million crimes across a million global jurisdictions and collect a million ankle bracelets and bask in your new fancy freaky Extend-o-Legs.
Play your cards right and you could probably enter MMA matches, then kapow one of your legs out directly behind you, and circumnavigate it around the entire globe and back into the MMA's venue from the opposite direction, and kick your opponent in the back of the head. Works a treat! I do it regularly. Its biggest drawback is having to wait the multiple days required for your foot's circumnavigation. We all know that MMA fighters aren't exactly the sharpest bunch, but even they may prove reluctant to remain in the same exact spot for day after day whilst you both wait for your intercontinental ballistic foot to bum them. So you'll need either even faster feet. Or commence your victorious knockout kick five days before the match even starts. Or to shrink the Earth and its circumference. Or move your MMA venue to a relatively smaller planet like Pluto. Or, hell, just combat even dumber MMA fighters. Surely that's doable.