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I’m a little upset that we didn’t have a Johnny Cochran making snappy rhymes, though

So Jury Duty.

I had this elaborate Jury outfit planned. One of my black blazers, my slimline trousers, black flats with no socks, and my brand new sort of snakeskin looking shirt that is also a tad see-through.

You know, to add that little bit of trashy sexuality to the juror’s box. Shake up the legal world, as they’ve not had too much excitement since Marsha Clark ran out of hair to cut off.

I overslept yesterday morning and woke up exactly an hour late. I jumped into the shower and then back out. I don’t even think I got completely wet. Then I realized that I would have to de-lint my pants and search for my left loafer and my black bra since I couldn’t wear just any bra with the snakeskin shirt. Of course, I could just wear a white button down instead but that throws off my entire allure as the Curvy Round Sex Juror. And then it was like 7:21 and I had to be standing in the courthouse, ready to make life or death decisions at precisely 8:00:00 AM or they’d throw my fine round bottom in jail. And we already know that I am completely irresistible to lesbians. I’d lose all of my innocence and naivet’. Well, the five percent I’ve clung to with dear life.

Given the fact that I should have left like ten minutes ago and also the fact that I knew I’d have to walk four blocks from the parking lot to the courthouse, I ditched my entire Jury Chic ensemble this whole Sporty Spice thing with track pants, a $7 t-shirt and my New Balances. I am so trash, it’s not even funny.

I scurried over to the designated parking facility with nary even a concern for my caffeine intake. I mean, hey, this is JURY DUTY right? All frills and free food and stuff? They will have soda for us or at very LEAST some coffee. I could slug through a cup of courthouse joe if I dumped enough sugar and cream into it to pretend that it was a Starbucks Mocha.

Have I mentioned how I have this longing to visit Starbucks Guy in Madison? Must be hormones. Or caffeine withdrawal.

At the last moment, I grabbed a Buffy book (Yes. I know. It’s the equivalent of junk food for the mind and I bought them to read at the pool, so don’t be asking me which brand of luxury automobile I owe the government for my degree in English Lit and I won’t make fun of you for wearing a tank with a shelf bra when you really ought not to or for watching WWF when no one is looking, ok? And don’t even get me started on that John Denver CD you’ve got hidden behind the toilet where you think no one sees it. Hmmm?) and sprinted the several blocks to the courthouse. Well, that horrible sort of not running that girls who don’t like to run do. Basically, I was walking really fast and not breaking into a run because then my boobles would have bobbed up and down and that hurts like a sumbitch when you’ve got talent like mine.

A block from the courthouse, I was met by E, whose name I’m leaving off the journal for reasons which will become obvious. As luck would have it, E was also summoned for jury duty. And judging by the large crowd milling around the locked courthouse, so did most of Green Bay. Yes. Locked courthouse. That mofo wasn’t even open yet! And I broke into an actual SWEAT to get there on time! And neglected feeding the caffeine monkey on my back. I started to swear, a talent I usually save for volleyball, golf, and the Bad Bar. Mofo criminals.

Finally, we were let into the courthouse where we all stood around a hallway. And stood. And stood. The first fifteen through the door had secured spots on a bench, but the other 60 of us were forced to stand. Finally, I noticed another bench on the other side of the hallway and said “Screw this crap, I’m sitting.” E followed suit, as she had worn some strappy sandals and her feet were already killing her.

And need I even tell you that there was no Diet Coke? No soda whatsoever? Not even a spec of caffeine in the building? A bailiff decided to befriend us and told us that it was going to be late getting started because the judge was hearing motions on the trial prior to jury selection. I asked about the proximity of possible Diet Coke. Apparently, there was a machine two floors down, but I wasn’t supposed to leave. I looked at the hallway filled with potential jurors. Some of them had actually fallen asleep in a standing position and drool was starting to edge down their faces. If I didn’t procure some form of caffeine, I would be joining them. It would have inhibited my performance of my civic duty! This was patriotic Diet Coke! He warned me that I wouldn’t be able to bring it into the courtroom, as we could not eat, drink, chew gum, or do any effusive perspiration inside the hallowed halls of justice. I made a break for the elevator, shouting over my shoulder that my chugging talents were legendary. At least at the Bad Bar.

When I returned, no one had moved. E made a break to the Clerk of Courts to get a form she needed for something else. Naturally, right then, they decided to allow the throng of potential jurors to squeeze into the courtroom. I hung back and tried to inhale my Diet Coke in front of the bailiff who eyed me nervously, his fingers poised over his gun, ready to pop a cap in my curvy ass if I attempted to bring illicit food or beverage in. Finally E pops up and we squeeze into the courtroom, scoring the last two open spots on some squished benches.

Then we sat. 75 people sat on 8 benches, trying not to make any noise. I read my Buffy book, hoping that this would be a trial on someone who staked someone, thinking they were a vampire or something and I would be excused. Then the lawyers came in. Holy crap. Our county’s rock star District Attorney was one of them. Wow. This must be a big trial. There was another guy with this long white white blond hair and red red skin, wearing a suit. I figured that he must have been the accused because he looked more like he belonged on the road crew of the Aerosmith tour, but then I saw him talking to the DA so I then realized that he was the defense. The accused must have been the quite, angry looking lady in the Goodwill suit.

Then I recognized one of the guys standing in the back. It was the karaoke guy from the Cute Boy Bar. He was standing there with three girls that he obviously knew and one of them was wiping her eyes. They had to be victims or something.

We sat around in the courtroom with nothing going on for at least 30 minutes. Thirty minutes while I stared at my half-gone Diet Coke, slowly getting warm by the bored heat of 75 bodies crammed into a 20×20 space. I was sitting on a small bench, maybe 8 feet long, and there were seven of us squashed onto that thing, all of us trying not to touch each other. It was like flying coach. The full ten-footer in front of us had eleven people on it, so we felt very fortunate. However, one of the very first benches in the front, a twelve-footer, had only six people on it! Six people! And there was a guy on crutches standing in the back! I instantly hated those mofo’s and hoped that they all were sentenced to something. First Degree Intentional Bench hogging. Something.

Then the Judge came in and we all rose. They then called 24 names and made them all sit up in the juror’s box. E was the second name they called and she took her spot in Chair #2, looking all important and official.

They then read the crime. The defendant had been party to breaking and entering. Ok. Not so bad. But then the Rocking DA read the second count: party to murder. GAH! With one trip to the courthouse, I was suddenly dropped into Law and Freaking Order. Which is appropriate because that damn show has taken over the cable world. I think Sam Waterston is under the table giving blow jobs to Ted Turner or something. I expect to see Jerry Orbach hosting the damn VMA’s next week.

And then they read the dates of the crime and the victim’s name and a flashbulb went off in my brain. The night I met Angeline-Is, we went to Cute Boy Bar and there had been some kind of question about whether or not there would be karaoke because the Karaoke Guy’s father had died ‘or something’.

It was the ‘or something’ apparently.

So, I had an out, because I knew the Karaoke Guy, who was slated to be a witness. I also knew at least two members of the DA’s team. However, I couldn’t leave until I got called into the Bull Pen and could tell them.

They continued to ask all of these questions and the people in the Bull Pen would get excused and they would then be replaced with those of us remaining in the benches. Sadly, no one from my bench got called up, so we sat there, crammed into that little bench like sardines. You’d think that one of us would have moved to a less full bench but I suppose we just didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves.

E kept raising her hand for some of the questions. She knows many members of the police department. She had a cousin who had a drug problem. She had a close friend who was a victim of an assault or in an abusive relationship. But nothing seemed to get her out of the Bull Pen. She was trapped!

We took a break and instead of going with the Bull Pen, E broke away from the pack and ran out with the Benchies so she could hang with me. I downed the rest of my Diet Coke. It was the temperature of fresh urine. We saw a cop that E knew and he knew about the trial. E was bemoaning the fact that she was having a problem getting off the jury. He asked why she didn’t tell the judge that she knew so many cops, but apparently the judge was more interested in having some eye-candy in the jurors box than a fair and impartial trial. E was, by far, the most fetching member of the Bull Pen.

We went back in. I don’t know if E was reprimanded for hanging out with the Benchies or not. They continued to ask more questions. One was ‘Have you ever been arrested?’ and half the Bull Pen raised their hand. Then they went through, one by one, and made them tell the court what they were arrested for. There are a powerful lot of former drunk drivers deciding the fate of that alleged murderer. One poor man will doubtlessly be traumatized for life for having to relay his crime to a room full of his peers.

‘Well, this sounds worse than it is&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- he began and you already knew that it wasn’t going to be good. Whenever a story begins with a cover, you know it’s a doozie. ‘Well, I was at a Packer game and, you know, this isn’t really like me, but well, I was drinkin’ and it was cold, and you know what happens when you’ve been drinkin’ lots of beer&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- Many men in the courtroom nodded sympathetically.

‘Regardless, Sir, what were you arrested for?’

‘Ah’m getting there. So, anyway, I tried to use the facilities, but they’re not that great at Lambeau. I hear they’re making them better, though, more of them, so maybe other guys can avoid my fate.’

‘Sir&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9- the judge warned.

‘I was arrested for public urination’ urination in a public place’ he then clarified by using exactly the same words as he had the first time. The courtroom tittered. I think he ended up getting excused for something else, but I think his bravery to withhold his oath to tell the whole truth and respect the judicial system by outing his public urination, that is, urination in a public place, should be lauded. Perhaps the best man for the jury walked out. We will never know.

The questioning went on for what seemed like two weeks. Then they took select jurors out of the room to question them privately. E stayed in the room. She later reported that the juror chairs are extremely uncomfortable. Ha. Try wedging your ass into a bench with six other mouth-breathers!

In the end, I never made it to the Bull Pen. E, however, is still sitting in her uncomfortable chair today. She’s a juror. A juror in a murder case. Gah. Even if I hadn’t known so many people who were involved in the trial, I don’t know that I could have sit in judgment of someone like that. What is more, I almost burst into tears for poor Karaoke Guy who had to find the bludgeoned corpse of his father back in January. The trial started immediately after lunch, after I had gone back to work, but I guess he broke into tears when they replayed his 911 call. My own throat tightened up when I read the news article containing the transcript. I’m far too sympathetic to be a juror, I think.

My Mole Bet with UncleBob has been paid. You can read the two entries here and here. Poor Uncle Bob, the way I played with his life. I feel really evil now. But also gleeful that people actually thought it was a normal UB entry. BAH! Too funny. That was fun, actually. He doesn’t realize what he missed by winning.

Dear Justin Guarini on American Idol,

I was all for you, baby, but I think you think you’ve got this thing all wrapped up. You’re just not all that cool. Yeah, you’re cute. Yeah, you’ve got a good voice and a sexy smile. But you still look like the love child of Sideshow Bob. And your nose is very Michael Jackson-ish. You could cut a tomato with that thing. So a little more modesty. Please.


P.S. Did you see how Tamyra made your bitch, Paula, cry? Did ya? See. Modesty would look good on you. I’m just saying.

Dear Simon, the British Judge on American Idol,

I would like to offer you a role in my dream episode of the hit television series Buffy The Vampire Slayer. You would play the British vampire, Spike’s older brother or possibly a rogue Watcher from the Council. And you would also look at me longingly from afar and tell me how upset you were to find out that I’m married.



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