Tuesday, July 19, 2005

It's My Duty to Jury That Booty!

Edit: Warning: This motherfucker is long.

Well, I’m writing this from the Court House today because I am lucky enough to have been asked by the United States Government to perform a civil service and wake up at 6:15 in the morning.

I was going to write a sentence explaining the hilariously racist shirt that I’m wearing, but, I know that I’m going to have people looking over my shoulder because I have one of these fancy “porto-computers.”

So, now I’m stuck trying to write this as politically correct as I possibly can.

The goddamn guy just said that they need about 400 jurors or something for some long-ass trials. Granted, I don’t do shit during the day, but there’s no way I want to wake up this early every day so I can come out here and make $15 a day. I make more than that playing poker online and I can do that with a rock hard erection and nobody will look at me weird. But, right now as I'm typing this with my penis, everybody's looking at me weird. Don't judge me!

The chances of being let go today are slim, the Jury Manager, Manuel Gonzalez, says. It’s going to be my last day of jury service if I am not chosen. But I’m so goddamn all-American looking that there’s no way I’m not going to get picked. I may as well be wrapped in a fucking American flag, playing some baseball, eating an apple pie, and be 60 pounds overweight. Speaking of that, I’m going to type this fast, but there’s a huge chick sitting next to me. She has to have some Wooly Mammoth genes in her. Her face is really fucking hairy. We're sitting right next to a window, so the light shines across the side of her face and lights it up like a goddamn car lot. It's not peach fuzz, either, unless it was some big-ass peach.

The damn Jury Manger is doing stand-up. He just said, “Anybody here from Indiana?” Somebody shouted out, “Fort Wayne.” He replied, “I’m sorry?” The man repeated, “Fort Wayne.” He shot back, “Oh, I heard you. I’m just sorry.” Then, he pulled out the cap gun and scared off the hippopotamus that was blowing bubbles and wiggling its ears.

You can’t serve jury duty if you have shorts on. That’s weird. I guess exposed legs hinders you from understanding the law. It’s a good thing I’m wearing pants. Apparently my legwarmers, eye patch, Braveheart face paint, tiara, belt buckle that says, “Pussy machine,” and unitard is fine, though.

I’m just sitting here, hands poised over the keyboard, waiting for something to happen.

While I was waiting in line outside to go through the metal detector, of course, somebody started talking to me. Why does this happen to me all the time? If only people knew what a horrible, hideous human being I was on the inside. Having the physique of a decathlete can be such a hindrance.

Anyway, so the guy asks me if I’m from around here because he wants to know how hot it’s going to be today. So I tell him that it will probably be around 100 hoping that’s the end of that. But, no, he goes on to tell me why he’s at the Court House today. See, he was supposed to go to the Banning Program (I have no idea what that is, but I nodded my head as if I gave a fuck), which he did, but his paperwork was sent out saying that he didn’t. So, now he was at the Court House. I know, it’s not interesting, but if I had to listen to it, so do you. Then he went on to ask if I could break a $20. I could, so, again, I was hoping that was it. Nah. He explained to me how he needed to get change so he can pay for parking. I offered him a dollar so that he could go to his car and stop talking to me, but he declined. Then, finally, the glorious, post-conversation awkward silence began.

Video time! 15 minutes of glorious Jury Duty information. The video is explaining to me that sometimes things go wrong and we need to solve problems by having a jury. Thanks! “This is our democratic ideal,” says the voiceover lady. Right, because I want to have my fate decided by a bunch of people who would rather be doing anything than what they’re actually doing that day.

The way that it’s being narrated makes me feel like I’m in third grade. Except, in this case, I’m not going to be sent to the Nurse’s Office for pooping my pants again.

Now that I think about it, though I don’t want to serve, if I did get called into a court room and then wasn’t selected based on my responses, I’d feel rejected. “Why don’t you want to fuck me, Government? Am I not pretty enough for you?

“Evidence may be exhibits, documents, or material objects.” Ahh. That makes sense. Because exhibits and documents aren’t material objects, but, instead, composed of magic.

The Judge is talking now, interrupting my damn video. Judge Bernie Schwartz. He’s giving us a history lesson about the Court House across the street now. He said that one of the first witches was burned at the stake there. And he said it really proud. Then he ripped open his gown and showed a pentagram made of blood on his chest and he screamed, “If any of you is a witch, feel the wrath of the great God Gorgomesh!”

The video is back on, baby! At least the judge in the video is wearing a kerchief. People don’t wear those enough. I mean, I’m wearing mine today, but you don’t really see a lot of people sporting one.

I think if I am chosen, I’m going to be the sarcastic juror. I’m probably going to be the reason that some innocent person is convicted.

“Oh yeah. I think he’s guilty.”

Hahaha. They just said on the video that serving on a Jury is nice because you make friends. “Many of the members of the jury keep in touch after the trial.” Wow, so I’m here to make friends. Thanks, America!

The music is so triumphant. It’s like the damn Olympics.

Now the credits are rolling. It’s sad to see the video end. And, you know that the Academy Award committee is going to snub it because it doesn’t star any big-name actors. That’s unfortunate, too, because the lady who played the Court Reporter gave a powerhouse performance. She made everybody in her scenes better just by being in them and fake typing her heart out.

Now everybody is just standing around waiting to hear that they get to go home. Fortunately for me, if I’m picked, I’m just going to stand up, scream, and wet my pants so I can’t stay. Incontinence is a sure sign of a bad juror.

Actually, there’s no way I could do that. I have trouble peeing at a urinal, there’s no way I’d be able to go in front of a few hundred people.

Motherfuck. I’m not going to get compensated for my first day here. They said that that doesn’t begin until the second day. California is cheap. Speaking of that, you’d think my goddamn tax dollars would help pay for some door stops for this place. Every time I had to wait in line somewhere, people would have to hold the door open.

They just rattled off a bunch of names for people that had been selected to go. So far, I’m in the clear. They started off with a last name that started with ‘e,’ so I should have known, but it took me until about ‘m’ to realize that it was in alphabetical order.

There’s some woman here who is grading papers, so most would assume that she is a teacher, but I like to pretend that she is a woman who was never able to earn her credential, so, instead, she kidnaps children and makes them do homework.

They just called some more names. Man, I’m glad my last name starts with a ‘D.’ If it started with a Z or some weird character, like @, I’d have to wait so long.
They just yelled out somebody’s name, and it was “Constant Wisdom.” Jesus Christ. Fuck that person's parents.

Now I get to wait some more. This will probably be the longest thing I write. At least I’m hoping that that’s the case. It’s all stream-of-consciousness, too, so that ought to be a ball to read.

Some guy in business-y attire just got a phone call. He has one of those self-important headsets where, if you see him walking down the street, you think he’s crazy—or awesome.

The woman calling the names is treating this thing like Def Comedy Jam. “For those of you that smoke, you can go outside. But only the legal stuff.” The place exploded. One guy asked another to punch him in the face to make him stop laughing because he couldn’t take laughing so hard.

They’re calling more names. Fuck, they just said 200 jurors are being called by one department.

They’re calling in chunks of 50 I think. I’ve missed the first 100 so far. But, I have a feeling that that’s not going to last.

Man, this place is thinning out and there are at least 100 more to call. If I don’t get called, I’d be the only damn person left in this room.

I knew I should have worn my “Rape is no laughing matter…Unless you’re raping a clown” shirt. Nowhere did I read anything that said wearing shirts about rape was inappropriate. And if I don’t read it, that means I shouldn’t let my own moral judgment get in the way.

If I do get picked, I’m not sure, but I’d assume that maybe you have to fill out a questionnaire. If it asks for job, I’m going to say that it’s running a White Power website dedicated to the ascent of the White Man (always capitalized) back to the top where he belongs.

I think people that may be watching me type may find it odd that I’m hitting enter over and over again to hide the shitty things I’m typing. And when I say "people that may be watching me," I'm talking about Sasquatch face next to me.

The thing that sucks is that the summons said there would be wireless internet access here, but, for some reason, the shit’s not working. That’s the whole reason I brought my laptop: so I could look at porn in the court. There would be some serious gavel banging going on if you know what I mean (I don’t!).

There’s a guy reading “The Da Vinci Code” here. He also just heard this new song from this great new band called “Hootie something.”


And that's the point where they called my name. I'm typing the rest of this from home, all retrospective and shit.

Obviously, I didn't end up on a jury, or else you'd be reading my obituary and this would never see the light of day.

They called 50 of us and we all had to pile on these elevators on the second floor and go to the fifth. I ended up with about 15 others in an elevator headed up. I was standing in the very front. Somebody made a comment about being packed in like sardines. I looked down at the buttons and noticed that the third floor was lit up, so I said, "Yeah. And somebody in the back probably has to get out on the third." Everybody laughed and my self-esteem went from terror alert mauve to sea-foam green. I'm so fucking clever.

We gathered around some door where the Court Reporter chick came out looking like a low-rent Price Is Right Barker's Beauty from the early 80s and called off 18 names. After those names were read, the rest of us still had to go in and sit in the pews, the audience, the stands. Whatever it's called.

They swore us all in so we wouldn't lie when we were asked questions, but I didn't say "I do" so, technically, I was able to say whatever the hell I wanted.

I think the judge's name was The Honorable Chuckles McGiggles because he loved to crack jokes. Everybody there did. Murder cases are hilarious! Well, the one I was there for wasn't a murder case, but, instead, a stupid case about this guy who admitted to selling cocaine, and, the only reason he was on trial was because they were trying to prove that it was for the benefit of a gang. Lame.

Anyway, I learned the best way to get off of a jury if you're on one. Just say the following somewhere in the questioning: "I'm a follower of Jesus Christ." That guy was the first one to get the boot (or sandal).

I love the questions that the people on the jury are asked, though. They all had to say whether they had been convicted of a crime before and, if so, what it was. There were like 3 DUIs. Fucking drunk driving idiots. I'd sure want the people who make the fucking wise choice to get behind the wheel of a car drunk to decide my fate.

But, when it was all said and done, they mostly stuck with what was up there and I just sat there next to this girl who was kind of checking me out (probably because she smelled my awesome Nickelodeon: The Cologne). So it's at least a year until the government can waste a day of my time. In the meantime, though, I better find Jesus Christ (I heard he's with that chick in Aruba).

Interesting thought of the day:
The Bald Eagle is the official bird of the United States. A lesser known fact is that George W. Bush eats one every Friday in a ritualistic ceremony because he "wants to be the most American."

Edit #2: Now that I think of it, I may have accidentally stolen this idea from a David Cross joke.

1 comment:

Drew said...

You lost me at 'Warning'. Then again, I scare easily.