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|The jury... it's made up entirely of my ex-girlfriends.|
mr. district attorney | Friday, 07.29.05
Y'know, I'd like the truth, but deep down, I know that I just won't be able to handle it. I reached this conclusion after two grueling days of jury duty, where I "exercised my civic duty" and "fell asleep in a room full of slobs" and "made $10." I realize that most of my fans are 11-year-old girls, so allow me to explain this whole wacky judicial system we have here in USA town.
Once you turn 18, you're eligible for jury duty. A suggestion: if you receive a letter in the mail that says "REPORT TO JURY DUTY NOW, LITTLE MISTER," just burn your house to the ground. I heard a lot of excuses during my two day tour of duty, and I think the old "my house burned to the ground" trick would work wonders. If you don't like the thought of losing your loved ones to smoke inhalation, or you're out of lighter fluid, then you're going to have to bite the bullet, ride the wave and do the dew all the way to your county courthouse, where you will be raped up the ass by boredom and misery for at least two days. But in that time, you'll be able to think of a good excuse as to why you would be unfit to serve as a juror. Here's a hint: Telling them you have herpes will not work. I didn't try any other sexually transmitted diseases, but I think they'd all yield similar results.
Your first stop on your jury duty adventure starts in the waiting pen. Here you will wait for your named to be called for seven to eight hours. You have two options to pass the time: read a book or rub one out. This waiting area also had a wide variety of board games on hand, but do you really want to play checkers with a complete stranger? Who knows what sort of strange Canadian rules checkers he picked up during his sorted past. He'd probably drop some weird shit like, "You know the rules... King me! And also, remove one finger with this rusty shiv. Now." Fuck that. Eventually, your name will be called along with 21 other slobs. This is not the time to celebrate. It's not Rod Roddy up there mispronouncing your name, and you're not the next contestant on The Price is Right. And for $5 a day, the price is definitely not correct, Mr. Roddy, you poor dead bastard.
You see, no one wants to serve on a jury. It's boring, the pay sucks, and the jury box makes your fanny hurt after a while. Oh, and you could also mistakenly send a person to jail for life, or have their children taken away, or give them the fucking chair. The electric chair. I'm not sure if we have the chair in Jersey... but as a juror, I had no problem with sending someone to Texas to have their insides liquefied for blocking an intersection. You're now on to round 2, where the lawyers will inspect you like a fine lobster before breaking all of your bones and sucking the meat from your tail. By answering a slew of personal questions, the lawyers will determine if you will send his red-handed guilty client to jail. My favorite question was "Do you have any bumper stickers on your car?" I don't, but I sat there for about twenty minutes trying to come up with something that could get me kicked out. "Proud Parent of a Cross Burning Klan Baby" was in the running for a while, because you can't be a juror if you're prejudiced. Instead, I just answered, "No, I don't have any wacky racist bumper stickers on my vehicle" because I'm boooooring and I have no balls when it comes to this stuff. And of course, I was picked for a trial.
The judge made it very clear that the jurors were not to discuss the trial with each other until it was over. I immediately broke this rule by proclaiming that we were "gonna run this motherfucker out on a rail." I don't even know what that means, and the trial didn't even start yet, but it sounded cool, and I wanted to be the leader. I wanted to be that guy that stood up and said, "We the jury find this motherfucker guilty of everything we could possibly think of, including, but not limited to, being a stupid jerk. We rode you out on a rail, Mr. Plaintiff, enjoy your visit to the death seat." I soon found out that this was a civil case, which means that no law was broken, so sending someone to their death would be a bit harsh. Especially since the plaintiff was a kindly old train conductor who was suing the New Jersey Transit for making him pull levers that hurt his back. Jumping out of my seat and telling this old man that he was going to die for inconveniencing the lords of the transit system would probably send me straight to hell on a rail.
|NJ/T Never Forget|
The opening arguments were fierce and ridiculous. "This man loved his job! The levers are heavy! Before working for the New Jersey Transit, this man's back performed miracles that made diseased children weep... and now look at him. All disgusting and twisted and shit. Give him money!" Every time the plaintiff's lawyer got emotional, the sassy defense lawyer was all, "OBJECTION YOUR HONOR!" and they'd have a mini huddle over by the bench. There they would discuss who was a bigger jerk, and what they planned on eating for lunch. Pizza? McDonald's? A dirty water dog? We may never know. Then they'd all put their hands in the middle and yell "break," and continue with the opening arguments. The defense took a different approach. She walked over to us, pulled out a gun from the small of her back and threatened to kill each and every one of us if we dared to go against the New Jersey Transit. "You will make many powerful enemies, and we will make sure that you, your children, and your children's children will never ride a train in this state again. We're the New Jersey Transit. One phone call and we can have a fucking bus drive into your house. Vote for me! Whooo!"
Ready for the most anti-climactic ending in the history of anti-climactic endings? They reached a settlement. They didn't give us any details, but it probably involved the New Jersey Transit building the kindly old man a new spine out of railroad spikes. Before we were dismissed, the defense lawyer made the international symbol for "gun" and pointed it at all of us before pointing it to her own head and pulling the trigger. I guess she wanted to make it clear to us that we were still on the shit list, and she has nothing to lose. We all backed out of the room slowly. I walked back to Journal Square, and for some reason, the turnstile at the PATH station rejected my quarters. Damn. She's good.
Terrorists hate us. It's a proven fact. Another proven fact? Terrorists love bags. I'm talkin' bookbags, tote bags, paper bags, duffel bags, garbage bags with those yellow straps, etc. Why the bag love? Because they put bombs in the bags, and then they walk up to random people on the subway and they're all like, "Oh shit, can you hold my bag for a second? I forgot to program my VCR." And since you're a good guy you say sure, and then ask, "But before you go, what show are you taping?" The terrorist looks you dead in the face and says, "Match Game '72" before diving out the door. You nod to yourself before realizing... "Hey wait a second, there was no Match Game in 1972! Well, maybe there was a Match Game, but it wasn't called 'Match Game '72'. That guy must have been a terrori--" KABOOM.
|Shoot first, check their bag later.|
buck buck | Monday, 07.25.05
Officials said the city has never before attempted to regulate the possessions of passengers in its sprawling, complex transit system. The city's subway system alone has 468 stations and carries some 4.5 million passengers on an average weekday. Some of the larger stations have at least half a dozen entrances and exits. In New York City, relatively few people own cars, and the majority of those who commute via subway carry a bag of some sort filled with items needed for the entire day, including computers, business documents, gym clothes and makeup. Many people carry two bags. It is unclear how invasive the searches will be.
Two bags!? Let's not get crazy, now. In this day and age, if you can afford not one, but two bags, you can afford to have a limo driver escort you around the city in a fur car. Although the New York Times is unclear about how invasive the searches will be, I think I have an idea...
|GET DOWN ON THE GROUND BITCH!|
Cop: Are you carrying a bomb in your bag?
Cop: Is it going to kill a bunch of people?
Cop: Do you have a license for that thing?
Terrorist: Um... yes?
Cop: OK MOVE ALONG LET'S KEEP THIS LINE MOVING PEOPLE HURRY THE FUCK UP.
The bag search checkpoints don't mean much to me because a) I usually strap bombs to my stomach and b) I'm white. My white bread blandness usually helps me pass through checkpoints unscathed, unless I'm at an airport. Somehow, I'm always pulled aside and forced to undergo a more in depth search by removing my shoes, undoing my belt buckle and having my prostate examined with a metal detector wand. One time I was so desperate to get out of their clutches that I just started pulling random non-metal objects out of my pockets and presenting them to the officer... are these tissues metal? Does this packet of salt have metal in it? I don't know why your wand keeps beeping sir, I left my titanium cod piece at home, just please let me go! And they usually do, after I break down and start crying into my metal tissues. Suckers.
So, if you're worried about the cops stopping you and searching your precious bags full of god-knows-what, follow these simple rules...
- Child pornography is illegal in many states. By the time you read this, it may be illegal in all of them! If you must transport child pornography, be sure to hide the tapes in Back to the Future VHS sleeves. Everyone loves Back to the Future, and there's three of them, so you can safely transport Semen-Encrusted Underage Nympho Anal Creampie Bukakke Lolita Sluts volumes 3, 15 and 27 safely and securely.
- Leave your alien facehugger at home. Nothing holds up a line quicker than when one of those little bastards springs from your bag, latches onto a cop's face and starts laying its eggs down his throat.
- Cops are people too, and after a long day of digging through people's scummy belongings, they'd love to have a chuckle on your behalf. So pack some loose wires and a little timer in your bag and watch a smile creep across the cop's face as he unloads thirteen rounds into your ass. Comedy!
Children are horrible beasts that need a good firm kick to the face every once in a while to make sure they don't stay up past their bedtimes or put a penis in their mouth in exchange for cocaine. You must then follow the kick to the face with some words of encouragement, such as, "I'll stop kicking you in the face when you stop being such a horrible failure." Then, you pick them up off the ground, wipe the blood from their face, go in for a hug, and them quickly sock them in the jaw to show them that life is not fair. For more information regarding kicking your child in the face, please refer to my book entitled, "I Kick Because I Care: 100 Devastating Face Kicks That Will Keep Your Stupid Kid in Line."
|"The only good child is a dead child. Unless they're white." -- L. Ron Hubbard|
whateva, i'll do what i want! | Friday, 07.15.05
Or, you could just exploit your child's bad tendencies and put them on the new reality TV series Brat Camp. Apparently the times they are a changing, because I seem to remember daytime talk show hosts hiring boot camp instructors that straightened out troubled teens through push ups and shame... this is not the case with Brat Camp. Instead, they sit around camp fires and get in touch with their feelings with grown men named "Little Big Bear" and "Rainbow Dream Fish" and "Howling Desert Fagcactus." It's kind of like that old MTV special where they dump a bunch of faux hardasses into a prison and have convicts yell at them for an hour, except it's in the desert, no one yells, and they eat gruel. No shit, they're served straight up gruel every morning. Surely, this will cure our children of their social diseases. Why, before going to Brat Camp, little Jimmy was pushing grandma down the stairs and ordering salvia over the internet... but now he's got that gruel in him, and he's... well, thinner at least.
There's a wide range of teenage degenerates on the show, from the sk8r boy with the baaaad attitude to the cunty compulsive liar princess. There's also some kid on there who looks like he's about 5 years old; I think he has ADHD, much like every other child his age who refuses to sit still during spelling tests. Send him off to Brat Camp, because we can't give him Ritalin anymore! Dr. Tom Cruise PhD taught me that Ritalin is a street drug, and even though he's a high school dropout who belongs to a religion created by a man that has been quoted as saying, "The trouble with China is there are too many chinks," I think it's safe to say he's got his facts together. Thank you Dr. Cruise... I just received my e-meter in the mail today, and I look forward to fully understanding the Thetan lifestyle at one of your brain scrambling wellness centers. I was so glib. So, so glib.
Which leads me to my next point: I have come to the conclusion that Brat Camp is actually a front for L. Ron Hubbard's crackpot Hollywood religion, Scientology. Get them while they're young and angsty! Have Little Big Bear read them passages from Dianetics around the campfire, shove an e-meter or two up their asses while they sleep, and with a strict diet of vitamins and gruel, they'll be perfect little Dianetic Death Agents in no time. Sure, the treatment costs $85,000, but you can't argue with results. Oh, you could try to argue with results, but most people that argue against Scientology either end up dead or have their organs replaced with rocks from Venus while they are asleep. Can the children be cured? Is it all a front for Scientology? Are there rocks on Venus? Stay tuned!
|I eat eyelashes like you for breakfast.|
breakfast schmreakfast | Wednesday, 07.06.05
I lose eyelashes at an astronomical rate. Like, at least 3 or 4 a day. A quick google search for "dear god my eye lashes are falling out" revealed nothing serious, because all of the best medical advice comes from strangers posting on eyelash support forums. At first my shedding was kinda cute. "Aw, you have an eyelash attached to your cheek, you should make a wish on it!" Here's where I fucked myself: I wished for a million wishes, and now my eyelashes won't stop falling out. Stupid literal eyelash fairy.
|I've been drinking this stuff for weeks and it hasn't done anything except make me impotent and blind.|
Usually I'd see one or two floating in my daily bowl of cereal. Then I'd spend twenty minutes fishing them out of there with my patented spoon / finger combination. Scoop them up with the spoon, drag them to the side of the bowl, pluck them out with my index finger, find seven more hiding amongst the Rice Krispies and then start over. Now I just eat them. Not because I'm lazy, but because -- ok, yes it's because I'm lazy. And as long as there isn't a glob of soggy eye crust attached to the eyelash, I have no problem slurping them up like they're part of a balanced breakfast.
Speaking of balanced breakfasts, cereal commercials are always proud to proclaim that their sugary conglomerate of oats and sawdust products are part of a balanced breakfast. Then they show a picture of the cereal on a huge table full of stuff that's actually good for you like milk, orange juice, fruit, unbuttered toast, egg whites, salad, prime rib, etc. See? It's part of a balanced breakfast! It's right there in the sparkly marshmallow quadrant of the food pyramid. As a child that was heavily influenced by commercials, I begged and pleaded with my mom to make me a balanced breakfast. "Um, ok, what's in a balanced breakfast?" she asked. "Toast, a glass of milk, a glass of orange juice, cereal and eggs," I said as my eyes glazed over at the thought of finally getting a balanced breakfast. Finally I would bring balance to the breakfast side of the Force. I couldn't convince her to fry me up and egg or two, but I got my toast and glasses of milk and orange juice. Balanced breakfasts? Overrated. Toast does not jive with Frosted Flakes. A glass of milk, on top of the milk that's already in the cereal? It's a one way ticket to Leaking Ass Town. I'll take my big boy unbalanced breakfast of cereal, orange juice, coffee and anger if that's ok with you General Mills, Commanding Officer of the Balanced Breakfast Brigade.
Wasn't this update about eyelashes at some point? I can't quite remember, but let's roll with it. I've been told that I have very girly eyelashes. They're long and luxurious and would get me unlimited man ass if I took the time to curl them or straighten them with an iron or do whatever it is you broads do to your eyelashes to make men want to have sex with you. Luckily I won't have to worry about them for much longer, because at my rate of eyelash loss, my eyelids will be bald by the end of the month.
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