Peter Griffin had never been a man of great wisdom, but when an opportunity for easy money presented itself, he grabbed it without hesitation. One evening, after watching an inspiring TV commercial about fraudulent insurance claims, Peter had an idea.
“Lois, I think I found our ticket to a new hot tub!” Peter announced proudly at the dinner table.
Lois sighed, already knowing this wouldn’t end well. “Peter, whatever scheme you’re cooking up, just—just don’t.”
“Relax, Lois! It’s foolproof!” Peter grinned. “I fake an injury at work, collect disability, and boom! We’re rolling in sweet, sweet insurance money!”
Chris, looking intrigued, leaned forward. “Wait, so you’re just gonna pretend to get hurt? Isn’t that, like… super illegal?”
Brian, shaking his head, chimed in. “It’s insurance fraud, Peter. You could go to jail.”
Peter waved off their concerns. “Pfft, jail’s just a really strict hotel. Watch and learn, suckers!”
The next day at the Pawtucket Brewery, Peter put his plan into action. He dramatically threw himself down a flight of stairs, landing in a heap at the bottom.
“OH NO! I have suffered a terrible, life-changing injury!” Peter wailed, glancing around to make sure someone was watching.
His boss, Angela, peered down at him. “Peter, you’re fine. Get up.”
“No! I think… I think my spine is… in my leg now!” Peter groaned, twitching dramatically.
Angela sighed. “Fine, we’ll process your claim. But I’m watching you, Griffin.”
Back home, Peter was ecstatic. “Lois, we did it! We’re rich! Now we just sit back, relax, and let the money roll in!”
Lois crossed her arms. “Peter, this is a terrible idea. You can’t keep faking an injury forever.”
“Pfft, sure I can! I’m gonna milk this for years!” Peter smirked, settling onto the couch with a smug look.
But Peter had underestimated how difficult it would be to fake a disability. His insurance adjuster, a no-nonsense woman named Ms. Jenkins, visited the house frequently to check on his condition.
“Mr. Griffin, I’ll need to see you attempt to walk,” she demanded one afternoon.
Peter, still lounging in his recliner, panicked. “Uh… I can’t. It’s too painful. Also, I think the air hurts my bones.”
Ms. Jenkins narrowed her eyes. “Funny, we have footage of you dancing at Quahog’s ‘Disco for the Disabled’ night last week.”
Lois buried her face in her hands. “Oh my God, Peter…”
“Uh, that wasn’t me! That was my twin brother!” Peter blurted. “Uh… Skeeter Griffin!”
Ms. Jenkins was unmoved. “We’ll be revoking your claim, Mr. Griffin. Expect legal action.”
As she left, Peter groaned. “Well, guess I’ll go back to work. Maybe I’ll actually get hurt this time.”
Brian smirked. “Knowing you, that won’t take long.”
Lois sighed, shaking her head. “Peter, I swear, one day, you’re gonna run out of dumb luck.”
Peter grinned. “Not today, Lois. Not today.”
Just then, the ceiling fan came loose and crashed onto his head.
“Ah, crap.”