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| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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Dec. 2007/ Jan. 2008
Humor Writing Contest Results |
Congratulations to
all Semi-Finalists in our
December 2007/
January 2008 Humor
Writing Contest!
(Listed alphabetically by author.)
Hot Dogs and
Ice Cream
By Ken Bobrosky, Bahamas
When I was a child I loved to go to a baseball game. Indulging in a hot
dog and an ice cream cone was always the highlight. Today, that
childhood delight has become a nightmare.
After waiting patiently in the concession line for fifteen minutes, it
was finally my turn to order.
“I would like two hot dogs, please,” I responded.
“Do you want regular dogs or jumbo?” asked the clerk.
“One of each would be fine.”
“Do you want smokies, regular wieners, beef wieners or chicken wieners?”
replied the lady.
“Make the regular dog a chicken wiener and the jumbo one a Smokey,” I
replied without skipping a beat.
“ Cheese or chili on either one sir?” asked the clerk.
“ Put cheese on the regular chicken dog and chili and cheese on the
jumbo Smokey, please.”
“How about mustard, ketchup, relish or salsa?”
“Put a little mustard and relish on the regular dog and just ketchup on
the jumbo Smokey,” I replied.
“Do you want any sauerkraut or onions on either dog?”
“I would like some sauerkraut on the jumbo Smokey and some onions on the
regular dog – that’s the chicken dog that is already plastered with
cheese, mustard and relish.”
“No problem sir.”
Would this infernal selection process never end?
“Sir, do you want raw or fried onions on the regular chicken dog with
the cheese, mustard and relish?”
“Fried onions on both if you don’t mind,” I replied.
“Anything to drink sir,” responded the unruffled clerk.
“No thank you, but I also would like two ice cream cones, please.”
“What flavors do you want sir?”
For a moment I tried to think of a flavor that would compliment my hot
dog orders, but they did not carry Pepto –Bismol or Maalox flavored ice
cream.
“You can have the usual vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry or one of our
special flavors for July – Rocky Chocolate Minty Mist, Barbeque flavored
Maple Walnut or Pistachio Purple Passion Fruit.”
“Wow, what a delightful selection!” I thought.
“I’ll take one Rocky Chocolate Minty Mist and one Pistachio Purple
Passion Fruit,” I decided.
“Single, double or triple scoop?” the lady inquired.
“I think one scoop each should more than be enough to add the finishing
touch to the gourmet hot dogs.”
“Sir, would you like your ice cream in a cup or a cone?”
“Cones, please.”
“Regular, sugar or waffle cone, sir?”
“Regular cones to go along with our regular hot dogs please,” I replied
with a little frustration.
“I thought one of your hot dogs was jumbo,” the clerk retorted.
“That’s correct. It was just a manner of speaking.”
“Would you like your cones dipped, sir?”
“What are my choices?” I moaned attempting to bring this buying
extravaganza to a close.
“You can either have a chocolate or caramel dip and then one topping of
Smarties, colored sprinkles or peanut butter bits,” she replied.
“Just sprinkle a little bit of all three toppings on the cones,” I said
in desperation.
“That will be ninety cents extra for three kinds of toppings,” the clerk
informed me.
My knees began to buckle as I looked into her eyes and pleaded, “That is
OK, just please hurry.”
“That will be $19.00 for the two dogs and two cones.”
I gave her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
“I am sorry,” she said, “but the management does not allowed us to
accept tips.”
She held out a wrinkled dollar bill to me as change.
Since my hands were full with the two hot dogs and the two cones, I
looked at her with an expression of hopeless acceptance and said, “ OK,
just stick the money in the jumbo Smokey – the one with the chili and
cheese, the ketchup and sauerkraut, and the pile of fried onions.”
I returned to my seat, a beaten man. I ate my Pistachio Purple Passion
Fruit ice cream first to settle my galloping stomach and didn’t even
taste the dollar bill when I wolfed down the jumbo Smokey!
It probably had something to do with the indigestion and nightmares I
experienced last night!
www.itblowsmymind.blogspot.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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 Wanted:
Someone To Fill Ice Trays
By Burton Cole, Ohio
My wife and I were shopping at a local grocery store recently, when our
teenage daughter called us on her cell phone, asking us to purchase a
feminine product for her. My wife knew the type and brand she preferred,
but this particular style apparently was out of stock. Having relayed
that message to me, I decided to offer my assistance, being the
concerned and involved parent that I prefer to believe I am.
And of course, I was eager to come to the rushing aid of my only
daughter, during her time of need. After all, how difficult could this
be? This was a major grocery store chain, and these feminine things took
up approximately half of an isle -- on both sides.
“They must be here, somewhere,” I told myself. And I have been down this
road before, or, in this instance, this aisle, having shopped for
feminine products for both of them, over the years.
Knowing, from prior experience, that a woman has several different
products to choose from, I decided to talk to my daughter directly. So I
asked my wife to pass me her cell phone, because I have developed, over
time, into a confident, if not cocky, well-educated shopper for such
items, during my illustrious career as a father and a husband.
When I broke the news to my daughter that her desired product was,
indeed, currently unavailable, I offered her a few options. I mentioned
to her that they have other brands on display, in the most common
varieties that I usually purchase -- Regular, Mini and Maxi.
“But if these will not suffice,” I suggested, “the store does have the
following styles in stock and readily available for purchase -- Super
Maxi, Maximum Coverage and Super UltraThin.” A man’s man type of
product, I’ve always thought -- super, maximum and super ultra, which
translates easily into tough, strong and durable. The company should
include a picture of that Mr. Clean muscle guy on their package as their
logo, for proper representation of this seemingly stellar product.
“But wait,” I continued, now suddenly becoming a bit uncomfortable and a
mere mortal in my area of expertise. “They have even more types and
styles! They have Longs. And they have Longs with Wings, which I
wouldn’t recommend wearing with a sun dress, because if you should
happen to get caught in a windstorm, these wings could lift you off the
ground, causing injury.”
And since I knew she enjoyed sleepovers, I asked her if these Overnight
ones would be appropriate. And many brands even manufacture Overnighters
with Wings, which would be ill-advisable to wear during a camping
expedition, or any other outdoor activity, for reasons previously
stated.
And there is also the type with 4 channel protection, not advisable for
watching cable TV, which has far too many channels for these to be
effective.
The one type I didn’t dare offer to mention to my daughter, was the one
commonly known as UltraThin + Wipe. Upon noticing this particular
product line, I quickly handed the phone back to my wife, wondering why
I offered my assistance in the first place. Whatever happened to my
confidence, experience and expertise in this subject?
Apparently, these attributes had grown Wings and had mysteriously flown
away.
www.tribune-chronicle.com
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Teeth
Like God's Shoeshine
By Dr. Zanzibar E. Fleece
(a.k.a. Ryan Glaser, Illinois)
The uber-coveted job interview that would buoy your
means above the poverty line proceeded swimmingly until you flashed that
"blue chip" grin with more color varietals than a Pollock canvas or the
checkout line at Aldi.
Decades of bottomless espressos, R.J. Reynolds
patronage, and dollar menu indulgence have left your teeth a shade on
the Pantone Scale somewhere between a Kraft single and a dollop of
Nutella.
But before you re-up your subscription on
Joblessnayhomeless.com and nix plans for an Alan Thicke endorsed
vacation, take note of affordable new developments in cosmetic dentistry
like the easy-to-use at-home teeth whitening system Pearlystrips®
available from your dentist.
Pearlystrips® are gelatinous whitening strips applied
directly over your teeth for the duration of one to two hours, roughly
the amount of time you carve out each evening fielding telephone calls
from incensed collectors.
Pearlystrips® should not be used for more than thirty
days unless your nickname in college was "The Marlborough Man" or you
have a stained string of pearls that leaves your coworkers craving a
cheddar melt.
The only reported side effect of Pearlystrips® is an
excessively white smile akin to the ivory gates of heaven detrimental to
your health chiefly if you live over flight patterns or are employed by
the FAA.
Ask your dentist if you qualify for a free sample kit of
Pearlystrips® and look for a coupon inside specially marked packs of
Virginia Super Slims.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Just
Desserts For The Finicky Eater
By Sue Anna Langenberg, Illinois
I was having a pleasant Sunday
breakfast recently with my daughter and new son-in-law at a local
restaurant. We had just returned from the buffet table with our plates
full of all the pretty colors of breakfast choices. What a delightful
morning, I thought, to enjoy an outing with fresh brewed coffee and good
food.
Then she became stricken. The air stood still at our
booth as her face froze. Her brow was set, nose wrinkled upward and lip
curled as she clutched her chest. Her eyeballs were enlarged. I kept on
eating.
My son-in-law paled and became instantly concerned as if
there were a choking emergency. I could tell that he was new at this.
After 23 years of doing hard time with a finicky eater, I knew that this
was no emergency. It was just another routine meal when she thought that
she had been served arsenic.
I actually think that she was born that way. Thought I
never reported it to the LaLeche League at the time, I am probably the
only mother of a newborn in captivity whose breast milk was the wrong
flavor.
Since she couldn’t articulate the word "no," for about
two years, she had to resort to other food-refusal techniques. She
developed teeth as early as possible. They were shaped like a
saber-toothed tiger. Luckily, I managed to escape serious injury as I
weaned her.
Then she hated her first solid foods. From cupboard to
refrigerator, I would carry her around for a complete tour of the
kitchen. I sang cheerful melodies about crackers and played
airplane-hanger with applesauce. Her little dimpled arm turned into a
fly swatter.
"Shall we have this?" I offered cooked carrots.
SWAT!
"Shall we have that?" I went for the peanut butter.
SWAT!
"Or, how about cheese?"
SWAT!
At nine months, I felt that she was ready for her own
apartment. But I was brave and kept her around for another 18 years.
At restaurants, she would charm the waitress with normal
behavior and big blue eyes. At four years old she would point to the
most expensive thing on the menu. Then when her plate came, she would
stare at it in horror. I remember whispering threats through clenched
teeth across the table that I was going to "SHOVE those green beans down
your throat if you don’t pick up that fork NOW!"
Then there was the cereal stage. She thought that the
seven food groups meant seven kinds of cereal. And whatever flavor of
expensive boxed air with cartoons on the cover currently in the house
was exactly the kind that she didn’t want. That same arsenic-stricken
look would overcome her as the groceries came in the house.
"Mom," she was weak with impatience. "I don’t like that
kind." But you ate snap, crackle and pop last week, I reminded her. No,
she had a sudden distaste for snap, crackle and pop this week.
Then she would stare blankly into a bulging refrigerator
that could hardly be closed because there was so much food. If I rattled
off several menus that I planned to cook that week, she became hostile.
She seemed to thrive and grow, however, with a cereal
bowl attached to her lower lip. She hardly noticed Thanksgiving dinner
on the dining room table while she filled her cereal bowl.
The tough-loving parents, of course, always have the
firm answer for the finicky eater. The proud advice begins with "Why, in
MY house…" then continues to an air-tight discipline about how their
children must eat whatever is put before them. To my older one, this
approach worked. I would broadly announce that such-and-such was "on the
menu for supper, the next meal is breakfast." He chose to eat rather
than starve until the next day.
She preferred starving. By the time she was in high
school, I had given up on including her on the grocery list. She
subsisted on hair-care products alone.
By the end of our Sunday morning breakfast, I was
helpless with laughter. The waitress finally asked me what was so funny.
"I don’t have to take her home!"
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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TXT
Message
By Carol MacAllister, Puerto Rico
I Kn txt. Kn U?
Even though I’m past the modern girl age, I know the current skill of
text messaging on my cell phone.
Actually, I’ve been texting for the past 50 years.
Everyone thinks my plastic brain has learned a new task, but little do
they know that the deep ruts of learning text messaging started decades
ago in grade school. I was the worst speller in my class. If they’d
created a spelling bee for the challenged, I’d place first for the most
misspelled words.
My bfg thinks she’s taught me the cell phone texting ropes. Nope. In
second grade, the Scotts Foresman reading series where Dick shouts, “See
Spot run,” rejected my attempts at reading and spelling.
I was not the traditional speller. Take constant blends for instance: I
recognized there was an easier way to learn this new information. Why
throw out all kinds of different spellings for one sound and confuse
young minds. One sound says it all and the sound can be spelled with one
letter, such as “R.” R can stand for a myriad of consonant blends.
Why burden kids with variables? ER=R, AR=R, UR=R, IR=R, OR=R. Just use
the letter R, like a text messenger does.
I should have enlightened my grade school teacher about this precursor
to texting, early on.
In all modesty, like Al Gore who invented the internet, I think I
invented this current communication rage. General Grant, another
challenged speller, might have inspired texting with his shorthand, OK,
that he thought stood for All Correct, but I took it from there.
K. I didn’t think up the part where numbers replace letters. The number,
2, is part of the texting scheme. I can say a word with a number. It
sounds the same. 2-two, to, too. 4- for, fore, B4. 8- ate, G8. Kinda
like computer lingo of 1s and 2s. But, hey, the manufactures of cell
phone keyboards goofed up. KUZ they didn’t include an EZ symbol option
or fun shapes. A heart shape easily stands for love. So, the combo of a
heart shape and the letter U is an easy choice for love you. And, what
about those e-mail emotion symbols? Intrgr8 m 2. ;-)
Phonetic-types, those who replaced Dick and Jane sight learning, gave
lucky grade-schoolers a thumps up. “Sound it out,” was their cry. “Write
it like it sounds.” So that’s what’s happening these days. The next
logical spelling step towards the concise science of messaging: Texting.
A nu langich 4 por spelrs, slamfest poets, retired signal flaggers and
Morse Coders.
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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On
Death and Ceramics
By Jim McInvale, Missouri
The mood at the gathering was a bit solemn - but then it was a funeral.
Still, it really was no more somber than my workplace. I actually saw
more happy faces there than I do at work (a sad fact … but another story
altogether.) Technically, this was a memorial service and not a funeral.
The deceased was an organ donor who had opted for cremation over burial.
Socially and environmentally laudable choices in my opinion, and I
admire the man for them.
Happy faces at sendoffs are more common than you might think. Many of
the guests, including me, weren’t really close to the departed, but were
close to someone who was. We don’t grieve the loss so much as we do the
impact on people we care for. It’s an indirect, once-removed grief.
Another thing about these gatherings, they are packed with people that I
like a lot, but see too little. We’re all out of our element, on equal
footing and everyone is open, receptive and less distracted. There’s a
lot of catching up to do, and it really can be a pleasant affair.
Several times I had to remind myself to put on my funeral face.
The minister helped with that. The guy must have been an old-school
fundamentalist; one of those who believe that faith should hurt. He
leaned over the pulpit, glared through bushy eyebrows, and shook his
Bible at us. He called us all sinners and threatened us with damnation
(that part, in fact, was a lot like work.)
I hung with him for ten or fifteen minutes and then my thoughts went for
a walk. They headed for the hereafter and got close, but stopped just
short. Earlier that day, at the visitation, I overheard a conversation
about exorbitant funeral costs, specifically the cost of urns for the
ashes. Up to a thousand dollars!
That’s where my mind stopped, to think of alternatives. The widow had
declined to stuff the coffers of some corporate death firm - another
decision I admire and endorse. But what to do with the ashes?
Inspiration struck – I couldn’t wait to spring it on my wife. You’d
think that I’d know better by now.
Later that evening (I think it was over dinner) I went for it.
“Honey, when I go, I want to be cremated, but I want to get someone to
make me a vase … instead of just buying one from the funeral home.”
She thought about it and shrugged. “Makes sense I guess, you can decide
what you want, and if you don’t like it, you can always change your
mind.” She really likes that concept – picking something out and then
changing your mind.
“No, you don’t understand. I want someone to make me … a vase. I want to
be the vase.”
It was a truly elegant solution. I can remain functional in death. She
returned the expected response, so I took the idea to work. My
co-workers were enthusiastic, and even offered some variations on the
theme. One suggested semiconductors. After all, micro-chips and
transistors are ceramic devices. You jolt them and they change state.
Hmmm … no, too much like this life. Another suggested porcelain, of the
‘big white bowl’ variety. He pointed out that, if at my wake, some of
the guests had too much to drink, they might come and hug me. Not a bad
sentiment, but other porcelain bowl imagery is less attractive.
Time for a little research. I started surfing and soon found a list of
practical uses for ceramics. Something caught my eye – bone china. One
formula actually calls for two parts bone ash and one part kaolin. It is
a short hop from china to wine goblets or beer steins. Not exactly
immortality, but ceramics do last a very long time. Plus, I get to
continue participating in one of my favorite pass-times.
So my plan is set, I’ll be a set – of drink-ware. I just need to find
somebody that will take care of it when the time comes. For friends or
relatives reading this, I’d be eternally grateful for any help. And if
any of you find yourself at my wake, and someone asks you to raise a
glass to me, please be careful – just in case.
www.diamondskydancer.com
© Copyright
by author, used with permission by Humor Press. No unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is allowed.
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Wonder
Inbred
By Ian Samalya, Virginia
I love reading, writing, and watching
television (thank you Americas Next Top Model). However, in my “spare
time,” when I really cannot get out of it, I go visit my girlfriend at
college.
She goes to college up in the mountains of Virginia, it is a nice place
if you love being alone, being bored out of your mind, and Wal-Mart is
your home away from home.
It is like any other college in the sense of
the cramming for exams, the binge drinking, and the “all you can
scratch” free pass to the STD buffet.
As we walk up to her apartment, I see an abundance of blonde girls with
their expensive purses and men in caps and polo shirts. I guess these
are the standard uniforms for college kids who have too much time and
money. I see so many white people it’s like I’m getting my own personal
tour of the marshmallow fluff factory. I seem to be the only person of
color within a 100-mile radius. As we enter her apartment, she asks what
I want to do tonight and I respond with a “stay in.” She allows me to
enjoy a pillow and a blanket tonight, what a nice girl.
The next morning we wake up and she insists that we go eat something
while I insist I’m far to lazy to move. She definitely wins this fight
because no man can ever win an argument with a woman when it is food
related.
She gets online and starts reading these
names of restaurants. One after another, same old thing that I could get
back home. I want something new and exciting. Then she says one place
“Fancy hill restaurant.” Do you believe in love at first sight? Well I
do now. I must see this place and the fancy hill on which it resides.
What fun adventures are in store for me?
She is driving instead of me for once and I get to sleep some more in
the passengers side seat. We arrive to the “fancy” restaurant that is
supposedly on a “hill” yeah it’s on a hill, a HILL OF LIES! The place is
far from fancy, it is some old wooden shack that you would shove an
unloved stepchild, in and it is not even close to a hill. We decide that
it’s not that bad, so dine at this “fine” location.
The place is full of rednecks, truckers, and bikers. It is truly, what a
half black half Middle Eastern person like my self loves to see. We get
many a stares I guess these people still think white + anything but
white = the devil.
The waitress surprisingly does not have
heavy southern accent so she can’t be a racist like the rest of them.
Then I notice every time she talks to me she does not look me in the
eye. She must be scared of me, a proud member of the black panthers.
As I’m perusing the menu I see the usually
items of grits and other southern things, but just then something
catches my eye. Could this be true? Right there under the triple stack
burger I see it: Confederate Burger.
I ordered it right away. That is when I
realized that Martin Luther Kings dream had come true. I was eating in
the same place as white people, and I could even eat food that was
specifically aimed at white people.
You died for reason, so that a black man
could take a big bite out of hate. With these teeth, I crush racism.
With this ketchup, I drown the past. Not only am I swallowing meat (that
I am sure is not cow), I swallow and digest the binds of my ancestors.
Thank you Confederate Burger.
Thank you.
© Copyright
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Resistant
Lingerie
By Laura Snyder, North Carolina
The Law of Gravity ought to be
repealed. Yeah, I know it keeps things attached to solid ground so we’re
not all flailing fruitlessly in space, but other than that, gravity
serves no useful purpose at all.
Other than a bag of Oreos, gravity is a woman’s worst
enemy. Around middle age, everything starts sagging like a slow-moving
mudslide. We know that eventually our breasts are going to blend into
our stomachs and no one will know whether we are coming or going unless
we are wearing a belt buckle. It’s like the grill on the front of a Mack
truck.
Let’s face it, in middle age, the hair on our heads
starts to evacuate like there’s been a fire drill and relocates itself
onto our faces. Never before has an item been so constantly our
companion as our tweezers.
Sagging hairy jowls, grandma’s mustache, and a jutting
unibrow; we have all the markings of a Neanderthal. It’s no wonder that
the beauty industry is thriving. We are desperate to reclaim the face
and body we know we already had somewhere. It’s there, we just have to
find it.
Where is it? Gravity claimed it. Oh gravity, thou art a
heartless witch!
I was shopping for a suit for a special occasion
recently. Everything I tried on looked as though it belonged on someone
much taller and 60 pounds lighter. I looked like a Weeble.
I thought, "Where is that fabulous rack I used to have
twenty years ago? On me, the suit looked like I had swallowed a throw
pillow and it got stuck halfway down.
As I wandered around the store bemoaning my dumpy state
and wishing gravity would go find another planet to live on, I came
across the lingerie department. The undergarments I was forced to
consider bore no resemblance whatsoever to what I had always thought was
lingerie.
These were what my mother calls "foundation." Well, I
thought, I suppose if you want to build a brick house, you have to start
with a good foundation. They were made of whalebone, titanium and, I
suspected, a material that might be used in the after-burners of the
space shuttle. These hearty undergarments could squeeze and tuck twenty
years off my frame if I could just get into one. Ladders should be
installed in the changing rooms so that you can simply leap into them.
The first one I tried on winded me with the effort and
then I couldn’t suck in enough air to keep me from falling into a dead
faint. Perhaps I was a little too optimistic on the size.
The second one I tried on made me sigh in relief.
There’s that rack! I knew it was there somewhere! Welcome home old
friend! The only problem was that now my breasts looked like they were
equipped with nuclear warheads: Like Madonna in her cone costume. Hmm.
Nope. I don’t think so.
The third one was little more subtle in the warhead area
but was completely see-through. It was like it was saying: "I may be
something your grandmother would wear, but I’ve got sex-appeal!" That’s
what I like: Undergarments with attitude. As if I would ever let anyone
see me in that.
Liposuction, Botox, collegen injections, anti-wrinkle
lotions, cellulite zappers, and underwear that finds your twenty-year
old body. I may not be able to fight gravity alone, but at least the
"The Resistance" is on my side.
www.lauraonlife.com
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Jury
Duty
By Daryl Trowbridge, Washington
Recently, I took part in the revered, time-honored, civic responsibility
known as jury duty. It was everything I expected it to be—and more. The
morning of the first day, I witnessed emotional breakdowns, people
squirming under questioning, and outrageous lies. And that was just
during the jury selection process.
It really was quite shameful how many of the individuals called for this
privilege attempted to shirk their duty. In fact, if there hadn’t been
so many people working so hard at weaseling out with their obviously
phony excuses, I might have had one or two of my own left by the time
the lawyers got to me. With no plausible excuses left, I settled in for
the long haul.
Most people don’t realize that real trials are nothing like the trials
you see on sitcoms, television dramas, or movies. The lawyers in the
case I was on were not hostile toward each other in a vain attempt to
mask their true, romantic feelings for one another. They were, in fact,
quite civil toward each other, which was good because both lawyers were
men. Another difference was that, during this trial, none of the
bailiffs had to spring from their seats to physically subdue an
out-of-control witness or defendant. The only things these bailiffs had
to restrain were their own yawns. As for wrapping the case up neatly at
the end of a short half-hour, one-hour, or, at most, two-hour time
period, forget it.
So we the jury sat for three days taking notes on the testimony being
given, rebutted, and reaffirmed. At least we looked like we were taking
notes. It’s quite fascinating how many synonyms for boring one can come
up with in three days. It’s also interesting to see how many creative
lettering styles one can use to write said synonyms. But wasting time in
such an obviously juvenile way was not all I managed to do during this
time. I also exceeded my personal best at hangman, winning 17 out of the
twenty-one games I played with jurors 11 and 13.
When the testimony for both sides was through, it was finally time for
the judge’s instructions to the jury. The drowsy bailiffs handed out 13
fifteen-page packets containing the judge’s instructions, which the
judge proceeded to read to us as slowly as possible. Apparently, his
Honor mistook us for foreigners who, as everyone knows, understand
things perfectly when they are spoken to ever-so-slowly.
When the judge was through, the lawyers started in on us with their
closing arguments. The first lawyer put his spin on the testimony and
evidence. Then it was the second lawyers turn. Both lawyers talked about
the same evidence and witnesses but each had explanations and
interpretations that were so far apart that it became clear to me that
they were not actually arguing the same case. Another realization I came
to was that closing arguments are actually just a grown up version of
the “did not/did too” argument we used to have when we were kids:
“Johnny did it.” “No he didn’t.” “Did too.” “Did not!” “You’re a
doodyhead!” “No, you’re a doodyhead!” And so on. After several days of
testimony, the doodyhead argument would’ve been much more entertaining.
Finally, it was time to send us to the tiny jury room for deliberation,
where we were expected to mull over everything we had heard the past few
days before finally drawing straws to determine whether the defendant
did or didn’t do whatever it was he was accused of doing. Before we were
led away, the judge had to excuse one of the 13 jurists. The title given
to this individual is the “alternate.” People who really know the score
call this person the “sucker” (what would you call someone who wasted
three days and didn’t get to have a say in the fate of the accused?). As
it turns out, I was the sucker…uh…the alternate. Any way, the judge was
extremely gracious in dismissing me. At least I think he was. It was
kind of hard to hear him while I was whooping it up and cart wheeling to
the nearest exit.
http://musingsbydaryl.blogspot.com
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