REFLECTIONS ON AMERICAN JUSTICE

The good news is that I have fulfilled my civic duty and do not need to sit on a jury, deciding over the fate of one of my fellow citizens and insisting that after he has been duly whacked we fry him up to satisfy the hunger of the turkey vulture who was sitting on my chest when I woke up this morning, fixing me with a bright and cheerful gimlet eye.
He's an opportunistic little fellow.
And "peckish".

He also had two helpings of ice cream last night. I feel I must mention this, because he cannot remember, and says that I ate all of it myself.

He suggested that if I had to sit jury, I should take him along as my emotional support animal.


He could advise me. "He's guilty, do you hear me, guilty guilty guilty! Just look at him! Have you ever seen a more cretinous and criminal visage? Those dull blue eyes, that stringy inbred straw blond hair, that pallid fevered clammy skin! Those claw-like hands! Guilty! Fry his ass!"

The esteemed member of the jury.

Sydney Fylbert, the turkey vulture, tells me that the sure sign of criminal guilt is fatty inner thighs. Nice, juicy, fatty inner thighs. That marbling is the mark of malfeasance, and needs to be sliced into cutlets, breaded, and panfried. Then served with a garlic horseradish cream.


"He's guilty, do you hear me! Fry his ass!"


As an emotional support animal he leaves a little to be desired.
And that theory about the fatty inner thighs, yeah, no.
I do not need seventy two hours observation.
Or my very own straight jacket.


You do NOT want me on a jury. I am not your peer.
And my turkey vulture wants to have you whacked.




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