Extreme zoom, then a slow pan. CUT!
The fucken law is sending me prank summons!
I found myself lounging around in the bowels of the law, bit's and pieces of law breakers and lawbringers flittering past my view. Watching old lawyers chatting up the young, hot court workers (one guy told some bullshit joke that ended with "...and they were recycled cyclists! harr harr harr!!") and police officers talking about the World Cup. It was funny watching smackheads try to stand in line. Can't be done. They take drugs to stop straight line functions. One guy even acclaimed that he was, and I qoute, "on smack, crack and all that". I had to wait for my name to be call over the PA, but it didn't help that the PA system was manned (womanned?) by a woman with the most breathy sexy voice I've heard in a while. I couldn't understand her english, let alone strain my ears to pick up the inevitable mis-pronounciation of my name. I think she called Eminem to court 3 at one point.
I was wondering who I was going to get for a duty lawyer. There was one guy I wanted. I nicknamed him "The Wolf". He looked like someone who eats the law for fun. He has hired younglings shoveling infringements and technicalities into his gaping maw. He bathes on the sweat of lesser lawyers. He suckles on the lactating nipple of law herself. He looked immense, and I wanted him to cast his reassuring shadow over my broken frame.
They gave me Mr. Bean instead.
Mr. Bean who, after listening to my sorry tale, proceeded to tell me that he didn't actually care how I came to broke the law, but he need to know the tale to explain it to the judge...then nervously laughed. That was some kind of joke!? Mr. Bean who told me that I was allowed to go get some lunch but had to be back at 1pm, but forgets to mention that the actual courts were adjourned for lunch till 2pm. You bumbling fool of a lawyer. In Soviet Russia, law paddles you.
I was afraid of falling asleep. Scared I would wake up with suprise infringements slipped into my pockets, or cocaine sprinkled on my chest by prank prone coppers. Was wondering if my named was picked out of a hat, to be the one criminal for the day that the courts would fuck with? (it was unfair since there were two T. Nguyens on the list). Court workers would be elbowing each other and nodding towards me in a knowing fashion. Were they watching me from the safety of a camera? Pointing at me and taking bets? "Look at him," they'd say, "just look at him". They would lead me into a darkened court room and beat me up with door knobs in stockings. They would tell me I was their bitch. Didn't help that I was doing Collins class submarine farts all day. The kind that feel like they should be silent, but make an audible sound to be heard by all.
But finally I made it into court. It was a tiny room. I was squeezed in amongst my criminal peers. Mr. Bean turned around and reassured everyone that we got the good magistrate. He was known to be easy to deal with. The judge even rocked up and exclaimed "Let's get this show on the road. Rock and roll" (I shit you not). Then my lawyer came up to me and asked me to step outside.
The police officers didn't have my report with them. They had lost it along the way. I would have to come back in a month. I had waited nearly 6 hours for this!!! Could they not send over a new copy? "No". Was the copper shot in the line of duty, clutching the last known copy of my report? Did the bullet shatter the files as it flew through his badge and plunged into his bloated arteries? Well!?
It was a shithouse day and I wanted to go home. I expected I would find Danny Glover in my toilet, strapped to a bomb and shouting "I'm getting to old for this shit Riggs!". You and me both Danny, you and me both.
I found myself lounging around in the bowels of the law, bit's and pieces of law breakers and lawbringers flittering past my view. Watching old lawyers chatting up the young, hot court workers (one guy told some bullshit joke that ended with "...and they were recycled cyclists! harr harr harr!!") and police officers talking about the World Cup. It was funny watching smackheads try to stand in line. Can't be done. They take drugs to stop straight line functions. One guy even acclaimed that he was, and I qoute, "on smack, crack and all that". I had to wait for my name to be call over the PA, but it didn't help that the PA system was manned (womanned?) by a woman with the most breathy sexy voice I've heard in a while. I couldn't understand her english, let alone strain my ears to pick up the inevitable mis-pronounciation of my name. I think she called Eminem to court 3 at one point.
I was wondering who I was going to get for a duty lawyer. There was one guy I wanted. I nicknamed him "The Wolf". He looked like someone who eats the law for fun. He has hired younglings shoveling infringements and technicalities into his gaping maw. He bathes on the sweat of lesser lawyers. He suckles on the lactating nipple of law herself. He looked immense, and I wanted him to cast his reassuring shadow over my broken frame.
They gave me Mr. Bean instead.
Mr. Bean who, after listening to my sorry tale, proceeded to tell me that he didn't actually care how I came to broke the law, but he need to know the tale to explain it to the judge...then nervously laughed. That was some kind of joke!? Mr. Bean who told me that I was allowed to go get some lunch but had to be back at 1pm, but forgets to mention that the actual courts were adjourned for lunch till 2pm. You bumbling fool of a lawyer. In Soviet Russia, law paddles you.
I was afraid of falling asleep. Scared I would wake up with suprise infringements slipped into my pockets, or cocaine sprinkled on my chest by prank prone coppers. Was wondering if my named was picked out of a hat, to be the one criminal for the day that the courts would fuck with? (it was unfair since there were two T. Nguyens on the list). Court workers would be elbowing each other and nodding towards me in a knowing fashion. Were they watching me from the safety of a camera? Pointing at me and taking bets? "Look at him," they'd say, "just look at him". They would lead me into a darkened court room and beat me up with door knobs in stockings. They would tell me I was their bitch. Didn't help that I was doing Collins class submarine farts all day. The kind that feel like they should be silent, but make an audible sound to be heard by all.
But finally I made it into court. It was a tiny room. I was squeezed in amongst my criminal peers. Mr. Bean turned around and reassured everyone that we got the good magistrate. He was known to be easy to deal with. The judge even rocked up and exclaimed "Let's get this show on the road. Rock and roll" (I shit you not). Then my lawyer came up to me and asked me to step outside.
The police officers didn't have my report with them. They had lost it along the way. I would have to come back in a month. I had waited nearly 6 hours for this!!! Could they not send over a new copy? "No". Was the copper shot in the line of duty, clutching the last known copy of my report? Did the bullet shatter the files as it flew through his badge and plunged into his bloated arteries? Well!?
It was a shithouse day and I wanted to go home. I expected I would find Danny Glover in my toilet, strapped to a bomb and shouting "I'm getting to old for this shit Riggs!". You and me both Danny, you and me both.
posted by Thaozee at 9:19 AM
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