Civic responsibility

Jury duty @ 111 Centre Street, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

And what a burden it is -- reporting to 111 Centre Street to decide someone's fate under the best of circumstances. I know I do my best jurisprudential contemplation at 8:45 a.m. on a Wednesday in Chinatown.

Can't think of a better time to whiz someone's fate as a free man in front of me to see how I feel about it. It's not like I'm missing a key day at work or anything. I'd send Mr. McFeeley to the gas chamber if it would get my ass out to lunch quicker -- fuck your voir dire.

When you have a wood-paneled room (circa 1978, as my Carbon dating revealed) full of restive people all reading that new Stephenie Meyer vampire book itching to get to a face full of dim sum post-haste, I can't imagine for the life of me why life in HBO's "Oz" penitentiary wasn't more of a wacky, laugh-filled, everyone-learns-something romp.

By three p.m., I was begging for Comet Kahoutek to slam into the Earth's crust at my locus and call an adjournment to all court proceedings for the day. And I wasn't even picked! I just sat in the jury room ALL DAY surfing for German scheisse-videos on my iPhone.

I fear for Mumia Abu-Jamal if he finds himself in the defendant's box across from my weary, Henry Fonda-pretending ass. If they can seat a party of two at Doyer's House of Vietnamese in the next 15 minutes, then it's off to the needle, sucker! I gots a date with a shrimp summer roll and pork-over-cellophane noodle. Hah hah!

Take that finger-bang, Lady Justice. I just hope you look like Betty White under that blindfold, or I'm in big trouble.