Monday, March 28, 2011
1) Shave your head (tattoos are optional).
2) Wear jeans, a black leather jacket and a black shirt of some kind (e.g., maybe a turtleneck in winter, but definitely a T-shirt in summer).
3) Do NOT be so freakin' stupid as to wear a suit.
4) Remember - you still have balls - so do not wear khakis or glasses.
5) If you have created a website to celebrate your criminal ancestors, mention it on your jury duty card.
6) If you regularly maintain any kind of anti-authoritarian blog (e.g., anti-corporate, anti-government, anti-whatever), mention that too!
7) When you fill out your jury duty card, use a leaky ballpoint pen that leaves little clots of ink all over the place.
8) Use either dramatic and childlike block printing or penmanship so bad it calls your sanity into question.
9) Make sure your handwriting is just legible enough for the "bad citizen" content of your remarks to come through loud and clear, but no more legible than that.
10) When the judge glares at you, don't glare back - but don't avert your eyes either. Just gaze back at him innocently as though you've done nothing wrong. (Impersonating a mild case of catatonia can only help you here.)
Try all the above steps to be sure. They worked for me!
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Couple of months ago I'm boppin' through Harvard Square (my chick of the time liked those things called "books" and I was freakin' shoppin'), and this curly-headed asshole in a $5,000 suit starts hailing me from his Mercedes Benz. "Hey!" he shouts. "HEY!" I know the dick wants directions, but he's treating me like I'm his freakin' servant. I straighten out my Donegal flat cap and saunter up to the douche. "Yessss?" I say. "Could you please tell me where so-and-so is?" he asks. Impatiently. Downright oozing with "entitlement". I pretend to poke my peepers into his Merc. "Dude," I say. "You own a high-end Mercedes and you don't have GPS?" "It's not working right now," he says. "Well," I say. "Get it fixed." I pause while he looks at me with this ridiculously expectant simper on his lips. "I might tell you - if you give me 500 bucks," I say. He turns away in disgust, half laughing almost. I shrug and tell him, "I may be a bad businessman, but it ain't like I'm your Faithful Family Retainer. But it's all good. You don't have to pay if the price is too high." Then I lean over. "Of course," I say, "you could always outsource asking your directions to, like, China or India or some such place. I mean," I say, leaning in toward the dick ever closer, "Aren't they smarter and harder-workin' than American chumps like me?" I pull my head away from the driver's side while the guy glances at his wife and hurriedly starts rolling up the window. I get in one last shot, "What are you gonna do, dude? Get out and beat me to death with your riding crop?" I send this banker-like asshole on his merry way thus-wise. Good riddance. Ever after that, I've been researching how to separate Mercedes hood ornaments from their vehicles. Like, what should I use - a bolt-cutter maybe, my bare hands sheathed in a pair of work gloves? I don't know yet, but I really like the idea of staging a raid on some $100 a day parking garage in downtown Beantown and reaping a crop of upside-down peace signs that I can, like, string together and sell on Ebay. What y'all say to that?