Verdict - guilty, 'cause I say so

I'm not sure what posessed Maricopa County to send me this, but they summoned my hairy white ass for jury duty tomorrow.

I don't know much about the law (I hear they frown on drinking and driving and betting on cockfighting), and I'm more apt to side with the dude with the crook than the Arizona Man. If you asked me, I'm sure the pig who pinched the con probably shoved a nightstick up his kazoo to get a confession. I'll tell you what, you shove something up my pooper I'll admit to the Kennedy Assassination, where Jimmy Hoffa is buried and shooting down Amelia Earhart's plane. But I digress. I root for the bad guys in movies because they're often misunderstood geniuses just looking for some friends. Why would a live courtroom be any different?

How it works here in the Old West, the county paper pushers send summons with polite wording like: "If you don't show up, the judge will find you in contempt and send you to jail where Bubba will make you his personal dick puppet." Then, there's the color - white with pink boxes leading you to think you're getting a warm and fuzzy love note from some hot county clerk who remembers you from high school, but that dream fades like a fart in the wind when you see the excessive amount of bold letters ("You have been summoned for jury survice to the Superior Court" - no shit, I didn't pick that up from the envelope that stated "Jury summons inside." Thanks for bolding that, asswipe, otherwise I'd think it was a set of free self-adhesive return address labels from a cheap charity trying to stroke my nads for a few bucks).

The county sends these notices out a month ahead of time, which is a giant plus. It gives those of us who could give three craps about civic duty, and in fact laugh in the face of our justice system, plenty of time to devise a list of excuses to hit the judge with. Work needs me (yeah, right); I'm going on a trip starting tomorrow; I'm getting my ass hair waxed tonight and won't be able to sit for an extended length of time; I'm starting stripper school tomorrow and I need to find a G-string that will fit; I'm willing to say and do just about anything to not get on a jury. I'm not a big fan of courtroom dramas on TV or in the theater, so having it play out in front of me is the equivalent of setting me in front of a wall with a fresh coat of white paint to watch the son of a bitch dry to a glossy sheen. If I'm unlucky enough to get saddled with a case, god help everyone in the country because my yawns will shatter glass and uproot main street, the Grand Canyon will fill in from landslides and the great Yosemite rock, El Capitan, will become the great Yosemite pile of pebbles.

So, anyway, I follow the instructions on the sheet, mainly because I can't miss them with all the bold and pink, and call the afternoon prior to my jury date - today. Armed with my group number and a Rosary to ward off the jury mojo, I listen as the sweet-sounding recorded voice - part Kirsten Dunst, part Alyssa Milano, at first I thought I dialed a sex line and was all set to get one hand free despite thinking it odd that she started off her sex spiel with "Here are the group numbers that must report at 8 a.m. Tuesday morning," not exactly Salma Hayek telling you she's drawing a hot bubble bath. The first pile of numbers are the real suckers, they're stuck with the 8 a.m. shift. That ain't me, and I whisper a thank you to Lord Al Pacino. Next up were the folks who had to call at 8 a.m., and, thanks to Lord Al, that wasn't me. Unfortunately, there's only so much Al can do as my number was called in the next group, which must call the sexy voice back at 11 a.m. to find out if we're giving some dude the gas chamber - I give Wife the gas chamber every night, so I don't know what the crooks complain about it.

Calling back at 11 is like finding out the hot chick you've been buying drinks for all night is a dude in a hot chick costume. You feel you lost time you'll never get back. That's what the 11 a.m. call is, killing time out of my day if I have to go down there. At least in the morning I'm excuse from the prison work camp for the day, but since I roll in at 5:30 in the a.m., I'll only receive a two-hour furlough if the county needs my expert jury services.

At this point, I'm praying to Al that my number isn't up and I can sneak out of the prison camp the minute the head boobs turn their head. Of course, if they catch me they'll liable report me AWOL, have me arrested and I'll be in court tomorrow regardless of what the pretty pink and white paper says on my desk.