ubiquitous_a (ubiquitous_a) wrote in metaquotes,
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Judgemental footwear and Voire Dire

felisdemens catches up on her ranting........


- reading a magazine in which the editor states that she remembers what she wore her first day of college: white t-shirt, vest, designer jeans and "maroon loafers so outlandish that one of my friends confessed they put her off talking to me for weeks."

Really? She didn't want to talk to you because your LOAFERS were MAROON? People like that exist? What did you do to convince this paragon that you were worth her valuable time, replace them with some nice dull-beige Tods with kiltie fringe? Saddle shoes? OH MY FUCK BUT WHAT IF IT WAS AFTER LABORIAL DAY? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO(gasp)OOOOO!

If your shoes are not made out of whole, semi-live babies, anyone who bases their full opinion of your character on the color of your goddamned shoes desperately requires a thorough application of the "welcome to reality" ray. Since this ray is sadly still in production, you'll need to substitute a piece of rebar.

- the unbelievable stupidity of the other people being considered for jury duty with me. Every one of these lovely citizens was given a piece of paper asking the questions they needed to answer. These brain teasers included stumpers like "Are you married?" and "Where do you live?" in bolded, 24 point text. We were given ten minutes or so to look at the questions and perhaps make some quick calculations in order to formulate some sort of answers.

The knuckle draggers with whom I was trapped immediately jammed these pieces of paper into their capacious nostrils and sat there hooting and occasionally swiping the drool from their slack-lipped, gaping maws.

Then the judge began asking the questions.

"Mr. Buttfungular?"

"Yuh." *stares glassily*

"Are you married?"

*moment of silence while gears grind* "Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh... um... yuh...?"

*more silence*

"What does she do?"

"Uhhhh... hunh?"

"WHAT. DOES. YOUR. WIFE. DO. FOR WORK."

"Uh, she's, uh, a teacher."

"Okay, great. Any children over 18?"

*silence*

"CHILDREN, MOTHERFUCKER, DO YOU HAS ANY OVER 18?"

"Oh. Um. Uhh. Nuh."

Repeat for the other 8 questions, tough fuckers like "Are you registered to vote?".

Now, you'd think that listening to the previous ten people being led through the questions like spavined mules on `ludes would have given the rest of the dumbfounded dipshits some idea that oh hey, they might want me to answer these questions! better have some answers. but fucking NOOooOOOOoooo. More than three quarters of them had to be led, question by excruciating question, through the whole fucking thing while those of us who had cleverly combined the Socratic method with our superhuman abilities to goddamned well READ sat there crushed between people comprised equally of BO and elbows and collapsed into our own colons beneath the sheer weight of the ambient stupidity around us.

The real problem was "is there any PHYSICAL (capitalization theirs) reason you can't be on this jury?", which prompted outpourings of "my six illegitimate children under the age of five are in an iron lung, the dog has herpes, I'm flying to Bungistan on Tuesday blah blah" from half the participants. I began to bang my head gently against the back of the bench in front of me, causing the bailiff to admonish me not to get bloodstains on the wood.

By the end of this process I was memorizing names and faces so that I might visit about half these assmuffins and explain that you never know just WHO you are inconveniencing when you're too lazy and stupid to read what's in front of you. Explain it with my fangs, fists and feet. Or possibly a stripped lamp cord.



 Context
is QWP and just performing its civic duty, ma'am.
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