I'd never served jury duty before. But being a firm believer in the death penalty, I couldn't fill out my information fast enough. The next day I informed my boss, Mrs. Milf, that the Hamilton County Courthouse required my services and that for three weeks I would be able to work only if Uncle Sam didn't need me. She didn't give me any beef about it, and assured me I would get paid while I performed my civic duty. My boss is not only hot, but she's cool.
Three weeks later, I'm making daily appointments with the Courthouse. If you've never served jury duty before, it goes like this (at least in Cincinnati): the courthouse assigns you to a group number. You call the courthouse to see if your group will be needed that day. Then you go down to the courthouse, sit in a big room with about a hundred other people, and wait until someone announces a list of jurors over the PA to see if you have to sit through any hearings. Some days you get called, other days they let you go home early. But for at least the first four hours you sit there trying to keep busy, either by watching crappy morning news shows, surfing the internet on their computers, or playing your Gameboy Advance, like I did for three weeks.
By the third week, I had nothing to show for my jury duty service except $80. Every little criminal case I was called for was settled out of court before a trial took place. The perps got scared off when they hauled a jury to the panel, and they'd just give up on sight. It was very dissatisfying.
It was a Wednesday, during my final week of jury service, and there I sat in the Jury Commissioner's room with the other hundred sheep. When a woman's voice came over the PA, I hoped eagerly for an early dismissal announcement. This was it. They were going to tell everyone who wasn't on a trial to go home.
Wrong. It was a roll call.
When they pull jurors, they do so in increments of twenty or more so they can weed out people who might not be good candidates. The woman called off name after name while I envisioned escaping the courthouse, running back up Court Street to my truck, and running home for the rest of the day.
"Juror #19: ThreePly." Shit!
Trial would begin after lunch, so I had an hour to scarf down that microwavable by-product otherwise known as Healthy Choice lasagna.
12:45 P.M. Our group was brought down to the courtroom where trial was to take place. Unlike previous trials they plucked me for, this was a civil case, which meant it would go on for at least three days. Fortunately I was at the end of the list -- I just sat in the back of the room as an extra. The chance of me actually being one of the eight jurors was highly unlikely.
Jury selection began, with the first eight jurors called. The lawyers introduced themselves as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, and generally treated a group of adults like a bunch of first-graders, asking us if we had any relation to the case itself, whether we or anyone we knew had ever been injured in a car accident, ever been to a chiropractor, ever had to file an insurance claim, etc. The amount of bullshit questions these lawyers asked amazed me. Everything from their ages to their educational background was questioned to the jury.
1:30 P.M. I'm convinced that lawyers are the dumbest species know to man. Their continued onslaught of bullshit questions to each juror was insulting to all intelligent life. No wonder court cases take so fucking long. We have to hear the story of every injury everyone in the room has ever had. Shifting in my seat, I felt like the little kid with ADD in the back of the classroom. I just wanted to stand up and scream, "Don't call Council to the bench, judge. Just get the fucking trial underway already!"
All of my agitation began stirring up discomfort down below. Slowly, my stomach began cramping up. Uh-oh. I guess I abused my free coffee privilege back in the commissioner's room.
Jury selection continued as many of the original eight were removed for personal reasons; I stayed put, even though I had a personal reason of my own brewing down below. All of that anticipation back at the commissioner's room was coming back to haunt me at a most inopportune moment. One by one, jurors were replaced by others sitting with me in the back of the room.
3:30 P.M. Two hours and a bunch of foul wind had passed. My fellow jurors probably noticed my discomfort, if they didn't already smell it, but at that point, I didn't care. That Healthy Choice was becoming anything but. I was beginning to sweat. I closed my eyes, hoping to meditate the gas pains away; but then I thought that could cause a mistrial if they thought I was sleeping, so I instead focused on the yellow wallpaper. The gas pains were coming in waves: pain, subtle relief, more pain, then subtle relief again. It was only a matter of time before I reached critical mass. The group of twelve extra jurors had been whittled down to four. Oh, shit, I might end up on the jury.
I started to think of any lie that could easily get me out of the case. Maybe I'd tell them I believe in the death penalty for this case, even though it was about insurance fraud. I'd tell them that someone deserves to fry, and they'd have to let me go, right?
I looked around at my fellow extras. If the two sitting next to me didn't qualify, I would be called, ass cramps and all. I was dreading having to walk up there and get grilled by the two attorneys. I had a plan worked out. I would make up some bullshit story. If they asked me if I knew the plaintiff, I would say I boned her sister, or something like that. My ass had become an accomplice for my contempt of court, but I was willing to gamble with jail time. At least prison cells have toilets.
I thought about the irony of it all. Here I was, in a building full of convicts, and I'm worried about something coming out of my ass, instead of the other way around.
3:45 P.M. Three hours into my suffering, the honorable Judge Blondie declared the jury to be sufficient, and we four extras were dismissed. I sprung from my seat and ran with the speed of an escaped convict back to the commissioner's room, where a clean bathroom awaited. I found the room totally empty. The rest of the jurors had been sent home for the day, lucky bastards. Fortunately this promised me an empty bathroom for what was about to become a criminal offense.
I stood before the toilet as my ass began to flirt with disaster. Not since I lost my virginity did I unbuckle my pants so fast. The moment my cheeks hit the bowl, my ass proceeded to commit felonious assault on the toilet. The initial log was a doozie, bridging the downspout. The rest flowed with the consistency of condensed soup: not quite solid, but not quite liquid.
I gave my ass an extra fifteen minutes to cool off before wiping twice with the Ohio State-issued toilet paper. At least I know where my taxes aren't going. I gathered up my things, hobbled back up Court Street to my truck, and drove home.
Fortunately, the Hamilton County Courthouse never called my group back for any jury service. I think we all know whom to thank for that.