My wife just received a jury duty questionnaire in the mail and asked me to help her fill it out.
Of course, she wasn’t seeking my legal expertise in order to complete the questionnaire more accurately; no, my saintly wife hoped I could insure her rejection from the juror pool.
Now many people (including yours truly) believe that it is our civic duty to serve on a jury when called.
There are many other people, however, who view it as a royal pain and go to great lengths to obtain pain relief.
Apparently, my wife is one of those.
Not one to run from a woman in need of assistance (particularly if I happen to share my bed with said woman), I agreed to look over the questionnaire and offer her some advice.
To that end, I have come up with the following proposed answers to some of the key questions in the questionnaire:
Q: Are you a citizen of the United States?
A: I don’t know, does crossing the border in the trunk of a car during the middle of the night make me a citizen?
Q: Have you ever been a law enforcement officer?
A: No, but I have made plenty of citizen arrests. Does that count?
Q: Have you served as a juror during the past 12 months?
A: No. Usually I move out of the state when I receive this notice in the mail.
Q: Do you have a permanent physical or mental disability that would interfere with or prevent you from serving as a juror?
A: No, it’s only a temporary condition that strikes whenever I sit for any length of time with a group of my peers.
Q: Have you ever been involved in a criminal suit?
A: Yes, but it was against my will.
Q: Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
A: Convicted? No.
Q: Have you ever been confined in any correctional facility or prison?
A: Confined? No, I’ve always been able to escape.
Q: Are you presently employed?
A: Yes, at the local branch of the U.S. Post Office. But I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, and I’ve just about had it.
Q: Any other occupations in the last 10 years?
A: Counterfeiter, safecracker, cat burglar, jaywalker.
There you have it. Feel free to borrow any of these answers should you receive the same questionnaire in the mail.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Saturday, November 15, 2003
Don't try this at home
Three seconds.
Three of the longest seconds one person can ever experience. That’s the approximate length of time I was on fire last weekend.
You see, the town in which we live allows its residents to burn their leaves as a method of disposal.
On Sunday, the boys and I raked our leaves into a number of large piles. I proceeded to start a small fire out of some wood near one of the piles, then we slowly raked the leaves onto the fire. Twenty minutes later, the leaf pile was nothing but a mound of black ashes.
At the next pile, I had a brainstorm triggered by impatience: Sprinkle a little gas on top of the leaves, then light a few near the bottom and step back to watch the entire pile burn at once. Speeding up the process might enable the boys and I to finish in time to watch the end of the football game.
After ordering my sons away, I crouched down and flicked on my lighter. The moment the flame appeared, the entire pile exploded in a ball of fire that simultaneously enveloped my upper body.
My wife says the explosion was as loud as a firecracker, but I don’t recall any noise. Only heart-thumping fear.
For three seconds, I hopped about and beat at the flames in a grotesque sort of dance, while my wife and sons looked on in horror and shock.
Once the flames were doused, my trembling wife grabbed me and pulled me close. As we stood by the smoldering pile, I became aware of a pungent odor I will never fully forget – the smell of burnt skin and charred hair.
I also started to feel pain.
My face began to sting and my right hand – the one which held the lighter – started to throb. Looking down, I saw a large swatch of skin bubbling atop my hand.
Not good.
Still, I am a man, so my initial reaction was to ignore the pain and try to laugh off the incident. My wife had other ideas.
“Get in the car,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Three hours later, I left the emergency room after treatment for first and second degree burns to my face and right hand. My eyelashes and eyebrows were all but gone, and the receding of my hairline had received a big boost. Yet, had I not been wearing a long-sleeve jacket, it would likely have been worse.
Although my face and hand are now a peeling, oozing mess – similar to what one might expect from the worst sunburn imaginable – the doctor told me I should be fully recovered in two or three weeks. In fact, I may not experience any scarring from the incident.
Of course, right now I’m not a pretty sight. In a move Michael Jackson would appreciate, the end of my nose has all but fallen off. Also, my right thumb became surrounded by a blister the size of Rhode Island. It has since popped.
Still, I’ve tried to maintain my sense of humor. When my wife brought home a generic “Get Well” card Monday evening, I feigned disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I just thought Hallmark might have a section for people who set themselves on fire.”
“No,” she deadpanned, “I looked.”
If nothing else, this story should serve as a lesson in what not to do with a pile of leaves. Let’s hope Hallmark never finds a reason to add a new category to their selection of “Get Well” cards.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
Three of the longest seconds one person can ever experience. That’s the approximate length of time I was on fire last weekend.
You see, the town in which we live allows its residents to burn their leaves as a method of disposal.
On Sunday, the boys and I raked our leaves into a number of large piles. I proceeded to start a small fire out of some wood near one of the piles, then we slowly raked the leaves onto the fire. Twenty minutes later, the leaf pile was nothing but a mound of black ashes.
At the next pile, I had a brainstorm triggered by impatience: Sprinkle a little gas on top of the leaves, then light a few near the bottom and step back to watch the entire pile burn at once. Speeding up the process might enable the boys and I to finish in time to watch the end of the football game.
After ordering my sons away, I crouched down and flicked on my lighter. The moment the flame appeared, the entire pile exploded in a ball of fire that simultaneously enveloped my upper body.
My wife says the explosion was as loud as a firecracker, but I don’t recall any noise. Only heart-thumping fear.
For three seconds, I hopped about and beat at the flames in a grotesque sort of dance, while my wife and sons looked on in horror and shock.
Once the flames were doused, my trembling wife grabbed me and pulled me close. As we stood by the smoldering pile, I became aware of a pungent odor I will never fully forget – the smell of burnt skin and charred hair.
I also started to feel pain.
My face began to sting and my right hand – the one which held the lighter – started to throb. Looking down, I saw a large swatch of skin bubbling atop my hand.
Not good.
Still, I am a man, so my initial reaction was to ignore the pain and try to laugh off the incident. My wife had other ideas.
“Get in the car,” she ordered. “I’m taking you to the hospital!”
Three hours later, I left the emergency room after treatment for first and second degree burns to my face and right hand. My eyelashes and eyebrows were all but gone, and the receding of my hairline had received a big boost. Yet, had I not been wearing a long-sleeve jacket, it would likely have been worse.
Although my face and hand are now a peeling, oozing mess – similar to what one might expect from the worst sunburn imaginable – the doctor told me I should be fully recovered in two or three weeks. In fact, I may not experience any scarring from the incident.
Of course, right now I’m not a pretty sight. In a move Michael Jackson would appreciate, the end of my nose has all but fallen off. Also, my right thumb became surrounded by a blister the size of Rhode Island. It has since popped.
Still, I’ve tried to maintain my sense of humor. When my wife brought home a generic “Get Well” card Monday evening, I feigned disappointment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “I just thought Hallmark might have a section for people who set themselves on fire.”
“No,” she deadpanned, “I looked.”
If nothing else, this story should serve as a lesson in what not to do with a pile of leaves. Let’s hope Hallmark never finds a reason to add a new category to their selection of “Get Well” cards.
Copyright 2003 Marc L. Prey
All rights reserved.
