Tag Archives: John Edwards

The World’s (Potentially) Greatest Juror

Today was a big day. Not just for me, but for everyone who cares about Bernie Madoff or Tanya Harding or whether R. Kelly actually urinated on a teenager.

I have been formally selected for consideration as a sworn juror. It is my civic duty. It is my distinct honor. I will not let the financial hardship (which has been described as impossible to prove), my desire to idle about como un huevon nor my dislike for public services lobbies nor the possible presence of morbidly obese people keep me away.

I’m taking my potential service very seriously. It’s not often my country calls on me. I’ve done some research. California, according to the website, is the greatest state in the union, but despite that fact there’s apparently a great deal of crime. This is why justice and/or trials  exist. This is why I have been called upon to serve my state. So I can face the judge, defense, defendant, and the audience and yell from the top of my lungs, “The jury finds the defendant guilty on all counts, your Honor!”

Also, according to the website, we have the best justice system in the world. Which is why our prisons, excuse me Corrections Facilities, are so full. No one gets away! America’s Most Wanted. We will hunt you down, beat you down, then grease you up and offer you to the boys in the yard. Justice. Democracy. Civic duty. California. Free hair cuts.

As a future juror, I’m told I don’t need any prior knowledge of the law. I just need to be impartial…which strikes me as an impossible request. How, after a lifetime of experiences and diverse interactions such as failed attempts at eating lengua tacos, parking tickets, sunburns and misinterpreting everything that Sartre ever wrote—how am I supposed to be impartial?

A former juror says, “It’s not so much about not having a bias but keeping an open mind.” Now that might not be in the Constitution, but it is in the orientation video, which is mandatory viewing. The same cannot be said for any documents our justice system draws from. Looks like we’ll just have to listen to the boys in Brooks Brothers and use what the original T. Paine called “Common Sense.”


Fact: As a sworn juror, I’m not allowed to talk to anyone about the case.

If I am selected this will be very difficult because the only perk of participating on a jury is they have free wi-fi, which jurors are encouraged to use. Apparently, there’s a lot of down time.

It will be my responsibility to use the internet, but not update my Facebook status to declare: Serving on a jury about this pharmaceutical sales guy who ALLEGEDLY got hopped up on his own products and drove off a cliff because he thought he could fly. Now his wife is trying to sue “Big Pharma” so her kids can be more successful than their father by getting an Ivy League education and a nice trust fund since dad—before he offed himself—blew the family nest egg on breast implants for his underage Thai girlfriend and a Cobra for himself. Who did this guy think he ALLEGEDLY was—John Edwards?

I’m also not allowed to go to the scene of the crime to do my own research.

In the orientation video I learned that it’s a deep and fulfilling experience to serve on a jury. Many jurors remain friends after sending a meth addicted fourteen-year-old cholito to deathrow for  shooting a mailman who he mistook for a member of the Crips.


As a send-off, I’ll quote the orientation video, “Remember today’s juror could be tomorrow’s litigant, defendant, or just another exotic dancer trying to make it in America! Thank you for watching and thank you for…”

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Bunga Bunga, Bro!

Call me crazy, but I’ve been thinking about other people. Maybe it’s because I’ve been off of vodka since May 26th.  You should know I’m really very disciplined.

So I’ve been thinking about Tiger Woods and Arnold Schwarznegger and what they have in common. Which is very little besides buckloads of alimony and endorsements. I’ve also been thinking about old John Edwards and Eliot Spitzer and what they have in common. Almost nothing. And then I started thinking about Silvio Berlusconi.

What does Berlusconi have in common with these other publicly ridiculed philanderers? They’ve all been caught dabbling outside of their miserable marriages. Some were with hookers, others with maids. Some were with the sort of trashy chicks you’d expect to find overboozed at a hunting lodge on the outskirts of Bozeman, MT. But not Signor Berlusconi!  Well sure, some of those women were ladies of easy virtue. But more importantly, none of Berlusconi’s women look they belong in Bakersfield. And although their job description might’ve forced them to get down and work on their hands and knees, they weren’t down there scrubbing the floor with Fabuloso. That much I can guarantee.

Berlusconi the corrupt politician, chauvinist, misogynist, and horrific Prime Minister might be guilty of providing inadequate aid to Abruzzo after the earthquakes or for snoozing in whatever you call Italy’s Oval Office while they become the next Greece –but for all of his numerous and horrible faults, none of them include a one time intern named Monica Lewinsky. No, this man did not throw himself upon hired help. Rather, he hired help to throw themselves on him and for that he is a prince among his cohort of failed Lotharios.

Sure, he’s seventy-two and nobody has anything nice to say about him. Nor should they. And yeah, he’s broken all of his own country’s laws. All the more reason he should’ve been caught with two underage toothless Albanian sisters in a gas station bathroom, but he wasn’t.

And worst of all or maybe best, while Tiger’s hair is turning gray, John Edward is “suicidal” about the prospect of  jail, Eliot Spitzer has been publicly sentenced to a caricature, and Arnold… well, he’s a little different because that dude honestly does not give a fuck. I’m being totally serious. He doesn’t care about anything. If only he had better taste in women or maybe if his best onscreen performance wasn’t the documentary Pumping Iron then maybe I’d put him in Berlusconi’s league, but he really isn’t. Still, while the rest of these guys are walking around with nothing but their recent castration on their minds, Berlusconi and Arnold are pulling up their trousers, sending someone else the bill and looking for the next one.

Arnold’s got a two movie deal and a house for each of his twenty-seven kids (when they emerge from obscurity/San Bernardino). Berlusconi’s seventy-two and thrusts his arthritic pelvis at every Moroccan nubile as if she might be his last because let’s get real. This dude should be dead already. Bunga bunga, bro.

The Neapolitan Mastiff

This is Berlusconi’s campaign aid from 2008. Bear the lead-in because this is a gem.

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