Thursday, March 24, 2005
Court tomorrow. I cannot wait. It will truly be the highlight of my week, which, until now, has been bereft of excitement.
I always get an elderly woman as my judge. Instead of looking directly at a given document, she'll tilt her head back and peer down her nose at the paper. She'll hold her glasses away from her face by pinching the frames next to her temple, aiming the glasses down her cheeks. She'll purse her lips into a magenta sphincter and raise her eyebrows in a vain attempt to stretch the foggy cataracts coating her eyes.
When she finally looks up at me and asks why I didn't have my proper documentation handily available for the noble officer of the law, I'll begin to speak. She'll cut me off as soon as I've said "I..." and, nostrils quivering, she'll berate me for my lack of humility and respect. I shaved and wore a polo shirt for this?
After my sentence is given, she'll hand my fine down to the bailiff with her shaky liver spotted claws.
Inevitably defeated, I'll mope over to the bailiff. He always looks funny because his police uniform is busting at the buttons with lard desperately trying to jiggle its way to freedom. He smells like pork rinds and his arms are crossed, resting comfortably on his roiling bellyshelf.
The frown he wears is the result of a clenched ass and suppressed farts, not disdain for the guilty or impatience for lunchtime. When this session ends he'll scamper daintily to the staff washroom and fumigate a claustrophobic stall with an assload of putrid swampgas. As he exits he won't look in the mirror to see his curdled smile or crossed eyes. Hopefully there will be nobody else present to witness this horrible spectacle, to hear his rapid panting, or see his sweat beaded forehead. He won't wash his hands even though they're coated in moist crumbs.
Back in the courtroom. As I walk out, I'll feel vaguely jealous of the souls who afforded themselves a lawyer before attending. I'll wish I had a middle-aged, rapidly balding, necktied agent of the law speaking for me with legal jargon and raccoon saddlebags under his eyes. These financial frankensteins with their paper dervish antics and litigious literacy can really keep a man's record clean. I'm not going to spend five hundred dollars to cancel a pollution emission fine of a hundred. Not practical.
I'll go back to work and steal some candy from the snack box and complete my Friday tasks with an air of distracted defeat and harried impatience. 11:24 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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