With trembling hands, I opened my first ever jury summons. This was terrifying. How could I sit in judgment of my fellow man when I have trouble deciding what flavor of Instant Breakfast to mix with milk every morning?
Eggnog or chocolate malt? Gas chamber or thirty to life?
The last time I’d been in a courthouse was to pay a traffic ticket and then I—honest to goodness—had to wait for some loser wearing a Snoop Dogg T-shirt to ask the judge for “four quarters for a dollar so I can get a soda.”
I brainstormed with my friend, Ben, who’s an expert at these things. We decided I should try any of the following to get out of jury duty:
1: Tie—and retie—a tiny hangman’s noose while being questioned by both sides.
2: When asked my name, leap to my feet, point my finger to the heavens, and shout: “I am the arm and sword of the Lord. Woe betide he who disobeyeth me!”
3: Chant “Acid is groovy, kill the pigs” under my breath while others in the jury pool are being questioned.
4: Have Domino’s deliver a hundred pizzas to the judge then laugh uncontrollably when they arrive.
5: When asked my views on capital punishment, smile stupidly and say, “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask the little man who lives in my pants.” (This may have worked better for Ben.)
Armed with my list of excuses, I dressed for jury duty: sensible shoes, a small purse with change for the parking meter, a simple blue dress, and an Indian headdress.
The day dragged on and my name wasn’t called.
They’d already dismissed the man who “heard voices” (hopelessly unoriginal) and the woman who said the defendant looked too much like Regis Philbin to be taken seriously.
Finally the word came down to the pool: the defendant had agreed to a plea.
“That means you can all go home,” the bailiff said.
Know anybody who could use four dozen miniature hangman’s nooses?