I Came Here to Quash Writs and Kick Ass, and I'm All Out of Writs

The only thing more entertaining than listening to somebody lie in front of a judge is hearing them do an extremely poor job of it. I mean, this lady was really tanking. Was I the only one who realized this?

Sorry. That was but a taste, or a "teaser," as it is often referred to in the movie business. And before I give you enough time to ponder what I would write about if I didn't have a minor legal or automobile-related headache about once every other week, I will just say that we're talking sequel here, folks. Some of the same characters you've grown to love, but featured in new and exciting (although soothingly familiar!) circumstances, and with a little more money for the "Music From and Inspired By" soundtrack album. Settle in, the movie's about to begin.

Please turn off all cellphones and pagers. Oh, and if you still have a pager, let me know where you keep your time machine that only transports you back to 1992, because I have some stuff I'd like to take care of there.

The lights dim. The dancing popcorn takes a seat next to the disturbingly feminized Diet Pepsi cup, and here we go.

The Los Angeles Municipal Court System Presents

In Association with the Santa Monica Civil Courts Building - Section "R"

A Cruel Indignity Disguised As Justice Production

A Brad Stevens Joint

Small Claims Court 2: Appeals Boogaloo

When we last left our hero, he'd just lost a Small Claims court case. Innocence shattered, faith in fellow man irrevocably shredded, all sense of common decency shoved face down in a puddle next to a dumpster behind Captain D's. As he marched into a gauzy, rainbow sherbet-colored sunset, he was changed. Embittered? Nay. Pissed off? Just slightly. Indignant? Yes, please! I'll have some of that. And a dollop of well-deserved impudence towards The System, on the side.

The System is that thing you rail against when you're fifteen. Back then, you don't have much direct contact with The System itself, but you know that it's keeping you from seeing "Faces of Death" when it gets screened at Showcase Cross Pointe every Halloween.

Then you get older, and you actually develop a grudging respect for elements of The System. The System is counting on this, your essential human need to survive, to not be living in a constant state of stress and fear, and to basically not put up much of a fight. You'll have the basic awareness that some bad things are happening -- in, around, and because of, The System -- but as long as it's just outside your peripheral vision, like the old lady you don't want to talk to on the cross-country plane flight, you will be spared.

But every once in a while, usually just as you're about to plunk down eighty-five cents for that Entenmann's Glazed Honey Bun in the employee break room, you're knocked off your feet and onto the cold linoleum. Before you can catch your breath, a designer Italian jackboot presses firmly onto your windpipe. Tiny clawed hands pinch and pull at you, like a bunch of drunk raccoons. A gravelly voice reads off your social security number, birth date, and the location and manner in which you lost your virginity. And then you're dragged into the boiler room of some anonymous, gray office building to be worked over with a belt sander and a length of PVC pipe. Because The System is hungry, and it wants its midmorning snack to come from you.

Or maybe I'm being a tad too dramatic.

The System will come to you with a smile, and usually in a suit. The System will remember you from study hall, or from last year's Super Bowl party. The System will ask about your family, about your job, about whether you think Kanye's new "joint" is as "banging" as his previous one. You won't want to cause a scene, so you'll just nod.

There will be a lot of talk about things being done "in your interest." Much lip service will be given to "your defense," "your financial solvency," "your credit rating." The one helpful thing to remember, when The System or one of its appointed minions speaks to you, is to replace "your" with "our." And by "our," they mean, "that which is currently ours, which will stay ours, as well as that which is currently yours, which will soon become ours. And by 'ours' we are, in fact, excluding you. We hope that's been made clear."

Allow me to pull myself back from a full-on Marxist rant, and also to sound like less of a half-assed societal critic. I don't actually believe there's an all-powerful, evil web of demons and old men in suits which runs everything and controls our destinies. It's more of a quasi-organized, amoral mass of functionaries and old men in suits which causes most of the frustrations and/or injustices visited upon each of us. And the really fun idea is that since we're all actually a part of it, we will, from time to time, become one of the drunk raccoons.

But on this balmy Monday afternoon, I was most definitely a potential victim, and not a card-carrying member, of the drunk raccoons. I was surrounded by those little inebriated, rabies-infested bastards, and they had already caught a whiff of the unwrapped granola bars which were, on the questionable advice of my insurance company-appointed counsel, taped to my crotch and inner thighs.

You see, I accepted the initial Small Claims court decision, as this meant I no longer had to do things like (a) go to a depressing courthouse, (b) suffer through a long, boring process that ended in my own defeat, or (c) tuck in my shirt. But my insurance company -- and they are so adorable this way -- had other plans. They wanted to appeal.

Never mind the fact that they initially found me at fault in the accident. That sort of put me at a disadvantage in the whole "trying to save myself and my insurance company some money in Small Claims court" thing. When this woman, with whom I was involved in a minor car accident, claimed injuries, my company then asked me to appear in court to state "our" case. Then, when "I" lost "our" case, "I" assumed it was "over with." No such "luck."

And so it came to pass. Once more into the breach, dear friends, and don't forget your dress shoes. Hey, at least it was in a completely different courthouse, so the building had a totally new sense of dread and complacency permeating its paneled walls.

There was a sheriff's deputy acting as bailiff, and she looked eerily like Bonnie Franklin from "One Day at a Time." Baa da-da daaa.

While the judge cleared his throat and shuffled papers, Deputy Bonnie was carefully applying personalized return address labels to a small stack of white envelopes. It took me a few minutes to realize that she was doing her Christmas cards. These are the details you grab onto when a woman accusing you of causing her soft tissue neck injuries is just across the aisle.

I watched Deputy Bonnie carefully folding Aunt Sharon's Christmas card. She stopped just once -- to whisper something into the police C.B. strapped to her shoulder -- and then continued. There was something fascinating in this. I looked at her well-pressed work shirt. Her carefully holstered Beretta 9mm. A thin blue vein that wound along the back of her hand as she applied a 39-cent snowman stamp. I thought, This is what she does for a living.

Sitting inside an airplane that's waiting on the tarmac. You look outside and see a guy in a navy jumpsuit and industrial-strength earplugs -- they're bright orange, so it looks like he crammed two Chee-tos in his ear canals -- wheels a bunch of linked-together food service carts up to the plane's cargo hold. He's the conductor of the world's smallest train, with hundreds of tiny, foil-encased passengers. And thanks to a hand-written, leather-bound book he found in the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport lost-and-found, he knows more about the Teapot Dome Scandal than any other person on earth. And he wakes up three hours before his shift every day, so he can churn out another couple paragraphs in the already 957-page manuscript for his historical novel called, "Bursum's Lightning!" But this -- making sure the guy in 34B gets his soggy chicken marsala -- this is what he does for a living.

Sitting inside a Hooter's on a lunch break. Yeah, I know. The waitress, who is required to wear too much eye makeup because she initialed the lower right-hand corner of page four of the Official Employee Handbook, asks if you want another Sprite. She has no reason to be embarrassed by working at Hooter's, and not just because it's less culturally offensive than the German Biergarten at Epcot Center, and not just because embarrassment should be reserved for the guy who thought this would be a funny thing to do on his lunch break. Yeah, I know. You see, "Moses" (not her real name) will freely admit to working the second shift at Hooter's because it is merely a cover. This 31-year-old waitress is an agent of the Silence Do-Good Sector, a super-secret government agency, founded by Benjamin Franklin to halt the illegal importation of the saffron crocus plant. If "Moses" misses her rendezvous with fellow agent "Brandi," then the global economy will be shaken to its very core. But this -- making sure the guy at table 8 gets his mozzarella cheese sticks -- this is what she does for a living.

Sitting inside a municipal court building. Everyone bathed in fluorescence, which gives our faces the pallor and greasiness of a sweaty pear. We all look like we got two hours of sleep and are on the verge of vomiting. There's a woman in an ill-fitting gray suit who lets loose with a ostentatious laugh and kicks the floor with her Easy Spirit pumps. She's here just about every day, filing paperwork on behalf of a massive realty office. But the laugh, the power suit, the forced camaraderie with the bailiff, the court clerk, the judge, it's a mask. And not a particularly good one. Because Sandra Zimmerman -- friends can call her Zimmy, but no one can call her Sandy -- once had it all in the palm of her hand. Before she got the promotion -- well, begged and pleaded for it -- she oversaw a few of her company's smaller buildings. One tenant couldn't pay, but instead offered her 8% of the publishing rights to his band's new single. "Gonna be huge," he said. Well, Sandra didn't think so. Unfortunately for her, and for all of us, that tenant was the founding member of the Baha Men, that song was "Who Let the Dogs Out?", and now, whenever it starts playing at the Applebee's in West Covina, she feels the sudden need to step outside for a smoke. But this -- filing a triplicate form on a balloon mortgage -- this is what she does for a living.

Sandy -- sorry, Zimmy -- finished her business and departed the courtroom with a sad smile. I sensed a Dos Equis or three in her lunchtime future. So now it was just me, and my measly, unwanted appeal.

The ugliness began anew. Stepping in front of the judge. Starting to sweat. Describing the accident to the best of my ability. Using plenty of gesticulation, as is my way -- my right hand curled into the shape of a Honda Civic and brushing gently against the pinky finger bumper of a Nissan Sentra.

And of course, the best part -- if I was forced to pick an absolutely best part -- would have to be the woman and her husband (who was not present during the accident, mind you) saying that I was liar, saying that I slammed into her, saying that I did everything short of drop-kick a baby who was holding a puppy.

I spoke up when the judge wanted clarification. I was relatively calm. I let the insurance company's attorney do most of the heavy lifting. I figured, he's spent all that time in law school. Maybe he actually enjoys this stuff.

So, anyways, I lost again. You probably saw that coming. I remained relatively calm, thinking it best to not look at my accusers -- now four grand richer, of course -- and to just head outside.

Once there, I thought about that money. And I thought about what it took -- from that couple, from me, from my well-meaning insurance company-appointed counsel -- to wrest it from a faceless corporation. The System let loose a thunderous burp, satiated for a few minutes.

I thought about this meek suburban woman who had so deluded herself into thinking me a bloodthirsty automotive monster that she dragged her gruff husband along with her, ostensibly to make me feel like I might be beaten up if we crossed paths. And I thought about how when I told my side of the story in the courtroom, I could hear them mewling and snorting and murmuring to each other.

And then, I had what I can only describe as an Inner Viking Moment. A simple, easily dismissable injustice was visited on me -- and granted, this happens to people all the time, plus all sorts of horribly worse things -- and yet I could not sidestep it. Instead, it just made me angry. That sort of anger where you wish, for a horrible second, that The Rules Do Not Apply. The modern world clicks to the side on the big cosmic Viewmaster, and instead you see yourself, wearing animal skins and clutching a broadsword. You don't know how you got here, but man, there sure are a lot of severed heads laying around.

This primeval anger shot up my spine and into my fingertips, my toes, burned inside my eyeballs. The anger clamped onto my head like the back of a dentist's chair. It was a hot little wave. I felt my cheeks go crimson.

I briefly fantasized about violence. I'm not particularly proud of this, and I can see the negative implications of dwelling too much on inflicting pain on another person. And I don't think violent thoughts make a violent person. But at the same time, it's probably much better to merely think about grabbing the plaintiff's arrogant husband by his rust-colored combover and his burgundy-accented power tie, and driving that prominent forehead into the nearby water fountain, oh, about seven or eight times, than it is to actually do it. In the interest of not getting tasered in the lobby of a municipal court building, I thought I would refrain from actually attempting this.

Instead, I was left with a big handful of, "Hey, what are ya gonna do? At least it's over with."

Standing in the parking lot, the unseasonable mid-afternoon heat giving a big hand to the pit sweat that came by for a visit right around "I rule in favor of the plaintiff." Here's this unassuming guy in khakis, who took a day off from his current job of grafting snarky comments into the scripts of basic cable clip shows. But he has no reason to fret. In fact, although today was an unmitigated defeat, he will not despair.

Because underneath the thin veneer of respectability, of politeness, of near-apocalyptic levels of decency, he's a Viking. And I swear to you, Bonnie, the next middle-aged suburbanite who calls him a liar in a court of law is getting a goddamned battle axe where the sun don't shine.

This... this is what he does for a living.

Reputable Until Proven Slovenly (Or, The Burden of Goof)

You file into a lobby with scuffed tile floors that could have been moved, as one uniform slab, from the D.M.V. of whatever state you got your driver's license from. Little flecks of black and green suspended in a beige that is the color of, I don't know, defeat? Resignation? It looks like they lacquered the floor with a few gallons of Breyers' Mint Chocolate Chip.

You cluster near the brushed metal doors of an elevator that's been creaking open and closed every day since the Eisenhower administration. There's every variety of person milling about. Every shade, shape, age, and hairstyle imaginable. It would be an almost encouraging collective of humanity, if they didn't all share the same look on their face -- mild confusion mixed with dread.

Ah, yes. The first day of jury duty. That weight pressing down on your chest is merely your civic duty. Empty your pockets and spread your cheeks -- the bureaucracy has you now.

Ding. The elevator door creaks open, and there's a faint whiff of stale tater tots and mimeograph ink. You (politely) shove and push your way into one of the cafeteria-scented elevator cars so you can, more expeditiously, get to the ninth floor. And you are (politely) shoved and pushed into a corner of the elevator, which is a much more efficient way of making sure your hands and genitals come into accidental contact with those of your new friends in the traveling United Colors of Benetton catalog.

Ding. Creak. Goin' up.

At this point, "Keep the Ball Rolling" by Jay and the Techniques pops into your head. I have no entertaining or intellectual excuse for this. It just happened. Maybe when a complex thought makes its own synaptic leap, it grabs a random bit of sense memory and brings it along for the ride.

And so there you are, in a cramped elevator somewhere downtown, catching a whiff of Texas Toast that you haven't smelled since fourth grade, humming "Keep the Ball Rolling", all the while trying to keep your own balls from rubbing against the purse of the nice Asian lady in front of you. Boy, kinda crowded in here.

Many times when this happens to me (the random song humming, not the ball rubbing,) I find that the song in question is from Aerosmith's "Pump" album. The only explanation for this is that I listened to said album on an infinite loop while mowing lawns in the summer of 1989. So it's seared into the outer, gooey covering of my brain, to the point where if I even hear the opening strains of "Love In an Elevator," I immediately launch into a hay fever sneezing fit.

Ding. Creak. The wash of fluorescence on the ninth floor coats everything in a sickly green. Now you're not a fellow traveler in a pan-ethnic tribe of legal crusaders. You're one of the pod people.

This particular floor, in this particular building, is but one of countless such places in this part of Los Angeles. Downtown L.A., for those unfamiliar, is filled with high rises and structures of varying shades of nondescript and difficult-to-distinguish. And none of them have anything at all to do with film production, music recording, or in shaping the careers of sixteen-year-old models. I think all of them are dedicated to court cases.

I received my summons not two days after a recent jaunt to Small Claims Court, in which I was the soon-to-be very pissed-off defendant. Actually, "jaunt" is not the correct word. It was more of a trudge, perhaps even a slog.

Even in the shadow of that ego-thrashing legal experience, I did something I cannot explain, and which I can only attribute to some deep-seated quest for self-punishment. I filled out the summons and called the 800-number to register for jury service.

To be fair, it's not just my apparently inexhaustible reserve of self-inflicted penance that made me do it. I have, since the dark days of Scantron tests, tornado drills, and color-coded S.R.A. books, been conditioned to follow directions, and to the letter.

The reptilian part of my brain, which in another era would be dedicated to the fight-or-flight instinct, has been reshaped by years of public schooling into the fill-out-or-perish impulse. It says it right there on the sheet, in red letters, no less: "You MUST fill out this form within five days of receipt." You MUST. See? I didn't even bother to ask, "Uh... or else what?" Nope. The threat of a smackdown from the giant iron glove of bureaucracy is enough to send me skittering about, searching for a No. 2 pencil. And so I sealed my own fate.

In those moments just before Big Brother -- actually, I think her name was Jeanette Cardenas -- muttered my name over the jury assembly room P.A. system, I cursed my stupid, nerdy, tight-ass adherence to responsibility and proper process.

I could have just tossed the summons in the trash. Huh? Summons? Wha... what summons?

I could have filled it out, called the number, gotten my instructions, and then -- gasp -- ignored them. Huh? Reporting location? Er... what reporting location? I got lost. Or something.

I could cut and run. Right then. Nothing was keeping me there, except the sign which indicated that the fifth-floor cafeteria offered fresh-baked Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. Yessiree...come on down, to the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. You can contribute to society, engage in the democratic process, and determine the fate of one of your fellow human beings. Oh, and there's cookies, jackass.

But no. I sat there, buttcheeks going numb on a plastic scoop chair, as the emotionless voice instructed me to get in the smelly elevator, press my unmentionables against those of a stranger, and shuffle off to be counted, processed, shaved, tagged, and forcibly handed my civic responsibility.

I was, of course, selected to be Juror Number Ten. Not one of the alternates, not one of the uncalled people, but right there, smack dab in the gunsights. We began the jury selection process -- everyone must pass around a microphone and give an overview of their own experiences, both in the realms of law enforcement and the legal profession, as well as any personal stories of crime victimization. Yeah, I know. What, no lectures on the specifics of tax law? No slide show of the judge's fishing trip to Bass Lake? C'mon!

But before that, the judge -- a very calm and reassuring guy -- told us that he realized that jury duty was rather inconvenient and not at all desirable. But it was also our solemn responsibility, and he felt certain that we'd discover it to be "one of the most rewarding experiences of your adult life." His exact words.

As if the entire affair hadn't already conjured enough childhood memories, I was suddenly stricken with the same panic that hit me before swim lessons at YMCA Day Camp when I was, I don't know, seven or something. I had to get out. They're gonna make me get in the deep end. I had to get away. I can't get on the high dive. Yes, I know I am, ostensibly, an adult. Doesn't matter.

To be a little more fair to myself, here's the deal -- my sister was due to give birth within days. I wanted to be around for this event. So, really, what was weighing on my mind, more than my own neurotic impulses, was that I would be suffocating in a small, wood-paneled box while my family welcomed its newest member. Which made my rolling of the jury duty dice all the more inadvisable. But I figured -- I'm unemployed, I got nothing to do during the day but write blog entries -- let's take a chance. Odds are, I won't even get picked to be in a jury pool.

Uh... yeah.

Now that I had valiantly stepped up, to accept my responsibility as an American, I next had to do the one thing we Americans are truly adept at: shirk it. Shirk that duty. Shirk it with all your might! Shirk, damn you!

My strategy for getting out of jury duty, like all my strategies in life, was only half-thought out, and involved not showering. I figured, if I can look as greasy, as unkempt, as thoroughly untrustworthy as possible, they'll give me the boot.

The automated voice response on the 800 call-in number requested that potential jurors please wear, and I quote, "business casual dress." Yeah, I got your business casual dress right here, Chachi. Faded blue curduroy pants. Scuffed sneakers. A droopy hooded sweatshirt, unzipped. And the capper -- a pit-stained white t-shirt. For added effect, I rubbed it against the window screen in my bathroom before donning. This gave my whole ensemble the "I just got dragged behind a Ford Festiva for three blocks by members of the Russian Mafia" look that I was going for.

So there I sat, scuzzy and unenthused and looking nothing like the type of guy you want in charge of any duty, unless it's replacing the air filters on your Saab. And even that would be a stretch.

Then, everything changed. The prospective jurors began describing themselves. Some with a steady voice and an ample amount of humor at their own stories as victims of attempted car theft, assault, what-have-you. And some other voices took on a weak, tremulous timbre, either merely nervous from public speaking, or, in some cases, from describing some horrible thing.

The reason for peeling back the protective layers on everyone's personal hell was that this was a murder trial. A diminutive Hispanic man -- younger than me -- sat at the defense table. There was a sad smile on his face. A weeping family occupied one row of seats -- either his relatives, or those of the deceased. And the jurors continued through the laundry list of Crap We Have Been Through, because the judge and attorneys need to know what fire has scorched Juror Number Six, just in case it will affect the outcome.

One young woman talked about how her friend's father, an off-duty cop, was shot before her eyes when she was only ten years old. "But he lived!" she immediately chirped, seemingly out of fear of bringing down the room.

"My brother is in jail for drug possession."

"My cousin is a gang member. I have seen drive-by shootings before."

"My husband was murdered."

This last one nearly made the clock in the courtroom stop ticking. What began as a get-us-all-out-of-here type of day was turning into something else.

We all experience pain. Fear. Loss. Sheer, inescapable terror. If there is one unifying human glue, it's that we all are well aware of how life can throw on the brakes, stop on a dime, and turn from passable to shitty, in two seconds flat. Hey, I was just laughing about something -- how'd I get in THIS neighborhood?

And that one perfectly human response, and one of the best things about us as a species, is that we can be faced with these terrible things, and push through. I don't mean to get all "Up With People" on ya. I mean, maybe you'll get smacked upside the head by personal tragedy, and understandably, you'll stay in bed for a couple days. But eventually, you'll throw off the covers and plant your feet on the carpet. Because, you got to keep going. You got to follow it through.

Hearing these truncated, shaky-voiced stories of people facing crime and death and pain was damn near overwhelming. And I felt like what I had tried so hard to look like -- a punk, a malcontent, a head-up-his-ass middle-class jerk.

There were people here that, when they gave their little summation of legal and criminal experience, you could sense their eagerness, their desire to be a part of it. Then it really sank in -- I have to get out. I have to get away. At least, for today. I'm thinking of arriving babies, and affordable flights, and seeing my family. I choose to look at it as a well-earned moment of weakness. I couldn't do it -- not that day, anyway. The Teamster, the retired aerospace engineer, the teacher, the nurse, the minister... they were there to pick up my ample civic slack. They had my back.

So, I was given a reprieve. Booted from the jury by the prosecuting attorney, and thanked for my time. Maybe it was the haze of discomfort that permeated my very being. I don't know. Maybe it was the hoodie.

But, next time the summons arrives, I will fill it out again. And I will call the 800-number. And I will go and pile into the elevator with everyone else, and read a book, and eat a candy bar, and wait for my name to be read.

And to those who hung behind on that gray Tuesday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time, with nothing ahead of them but to gaze, unblinkingly, at all the horrible things that we do to each other, I humbly, and with no irony whatsoever, tip my hat.

And I offer this, with apologies to our friend Jay, and all his Techniques:

You got to follow it through.
Keep the ball rolling.

Who Wants To Depants A Gazillionaire?

I must issue a warning. My polite Midwesterner's proclivity towards not upsetting the audience must say this: I am about to rock your friggin' world, Janice.

(Note: This is not the first time I have imparted this same vague, yet ominous, warning. But I can assure you that what follows is of an entirely different context than that instance, and will probably involve less weeping. For both of us.)

There may exist, one day on this planet, a trillionaire.

A trillionaire. For reals. Think about that.

Sure, the rise of inflation means that we workaday suckers are up to our affordable, unpretentious collars in millionaires. Every city has at least a dozen, and these days, some small towns are even getting one or two. However, in most small towns, a millionaire is still required, by law, to change their name to "Old Man [last name here]," and to be pushed around in a brass wheelchair with a quilt folded in their withered lap. They then must engage in behavior which only furthers their quest to hold the entire town in their iron grip. A cigarette holder and a monocle are also involved, to varying degrees. Sometimes an orphan or a single mother with Broadway aspirations will come along, to melt Old Man Hastings' heart, but don't count on it.

When I was a kid, just the word "millionaire" carried some kind of cosmic weight. Granted, when I was a kid, the word "Frisch's" carried cosmic weight. But this shouldn't take anything away from having a million-plus dollars to spread around. I'm just pointing out that the times, they do a-change.

So there could be a millionaire within spitting distance from you right now. If you should ever need to single one out, possibly for whiskey-fueled public ridicule, or perhaps shameless favor-mongering disguised as overweening praise, here's a handy checklist to identify them:

1. Go to a major league baseball game, and look up in the skybox area. That sunburnt guy in the pastel polo shirt, constantly high-fiving his slightly embarrassed-looking buddies? Millionaire.
2. Go to a sponsored artsy event, like a play or a performance art piece or an installation of genitalia-shaped sculptures made entirely of uncooked rigatoni noodles. Look for a list of names in the event's pamphlet. Those people under "Cherished Patrons"? Them's millionaires.
3. Go to your bathroom. Look in the mirror. That person? Not a millionaire.

So we've got tons more millionaires. Heck, with a government which has adorably abandoned all attempts at breaking up monopolies, there's a good number of billionaires, too.

Being a billionaire -- of course, very impressive. And when you're a kid, impossible to grasp. That's a thousand millions. It can't conceivably be measured in Super Ropes at the Kettering Public Pool, so to an eight-year-old, it might as well be Martian money. When you get older, this type of unattainable wealth is a little more graspable, if only through the entirety of its unattainability.

Acute awareness of this level of financial security may appear to you, unexpectedly, just as you flick off the TV and lay in bed in the semi-darkness. You just need a scant few hours of shut-eye to rest your weary, middle-class bones. Then suddenly, dancing across your frontal lobe are visions of people who aren't in, say, crippling credit card debt. Ah, to be a billionaire! Then, as an added bonus, you remember that you've gotta get up forty-five minutes earlier tomorrow morning, so you can pick up bagels for the entire office. And you also remember that Randy will complain about the garlic bagels being nestled next to the cinnamon raisin ones. Well, at least these thoughts beat the usual bedtime buzz killer of Sudden, Panic-Inducing Awareness of One's Own Mortality. A close second.

To spot your own friendly neighborhood multi-billionaire, use this helpful primer:

1. They have horrendous, ill-advised, often inexplicable, haircuts.
2. They appear to us mortals, when they do at all, in publicity photos, in which they are positioned on a dias, with their latest product, or operating system, amply projected behind them. Said product or operating system is, nonetheless, usually overshadowed by the presence, front and center, of the aforementioned haircut.
3. They are not you. Or anyone you know.

Which brings us to the elusive trillionaire. I'll save you some time. A quick internet search says that there are not currently any trillionaires in existence. But the jerkasses over at Wired Magazine have surmised that Bill Gates could, conceivably, become one before he dies.

Of course, this assumes several things. Firstly, that Microsoft stock will continue to increase in value. Secondly, that Bill Gates will have the life span of the average, garden-variety human. (Most people are unaware that Bill Gates has his internal organs replaced on a four-month rotating schedule, and that his brain and eyes will eventually be installed into a three-story-tall robot that will live in an underwater cave beneath Seattle's Lake Washington. Said Gates-bot will be known, for reasons as yet unknown, as Gary, and will subsist entirely on the laughter of small children. So, clearly, Gates is angling for quadrillionaire status.) Thirdly, this statement also assumes that everyone working at Wired Magazine is a jerkass. I don't mean to offend. All I know is they get paid to write articles about virtual reality headsets, and probably get lots of free stuff at corporate-sponsored parties. Hence, their jerkassitude.

What will it mean to the world to have its first, honest-to-goodness trillionaire? Call me ignorant, but like, is there, you know, even that much money in the world? If there's a trillionaire, won't that mean a little less for everybody else? Isn't this the sort of thing that would make Karl Marx yell out, "Told ya so!" just as Thomas Jefferson shakes his head, pulls closed the drapes, and mutters, "Well, ain't that a kick in the dick"?

This stratospheric level of wealth raises all kinds of red flags. Granted, most of these red flags are planted firmly in the soft turf that is my general lack of knowledge about grown-up things -- international monetary balance, the gold standard, what to say when a three-year-old asks you about heaven. But I will wave these flags with much abandon.

I mean, 'cuz, uh... it's not like the earth just poops out money, right? It all, like, comes from somewhere, yes?

Example!

You work the third shift at Costco, restocking giant jars of kosher dill pickles, so you can get your paycheck, and be able to afford a pitcher of Red Dog at MacGuffey's. MacGuffey's pays their rent and orders more Red Dog, and that way, the good people at Red Dog continue producing fairly awful beer and, in turn, paying their employees. These are the same Red Dog employees who are working the graveyard shift loading up the truck so they can afford that giant jar of kosher dill pickles at Costco. This is America -- we all signed up for this. It's in the fine print at the bottom of the Constitution.

Doesn't a freshly minted trillionaire sorta disrupt all that? Isn't there some kind of time-space-money continuum in operation? And even if I am, personally, nestled squarely in one of the murkier corners of it, shouldn't we be worried about messing up this equilibrium? Call me fretful, call me a pinko -- but last time I checked, we specifically had equilibriums so as not to screw 'em up.

So, true believers, fear the trillionaires. Because once they have that much scratch, there will be nothing they cannot pay for, or do to you, or pay for someone to do to you (probably with implements of some kind.)

A trillionaire would have, by definition, a bo-friggin'-zillion dollars. And that means they could peer into a telescope, pick out a solar system, clap a scientist on the shoulder and say, "I like the green one. It matches my sweater."

A trillionaire could have an entire country. Scratch that, because I'm sure there's already a billionaire who has one. In fact, I can think of a half-assed millionaire who's got his own right now. And he could barely run a baseball team.

A trillionaire's got so much money, the land mass purchase could even be an impulse buy. "Wait... what? So, Greenland's the cold one, and Iceland is actually quite temperate and pleasant at most times of the year? Oh, well. I'll give it to the wife, she'll be tickled. She can keep her shoes on it or some shit."

We've all seen the movies where the billionaire has a private island, and hunts homeless people on it. Well, the trillionaire-to-be will have so much money to throw around, she or he will redefine the very limits of human decency and restraint. Think about it. A trillionaire could pay your parents enough money to hunt YOU on that island.

"Mom? MOM?!"
"Oh, simmer down. I just winged you, Jeremy. Now, Daddy and I will give you a running start. One... two..."

Virtually every newspaper, movie, TV show, or affordably priced chocolate candy will be owned by the trillionaire. And you best believe there will be statues. Big, gold statues on every airport tarmac on the planet. Virgin sacrifices on the hour, with a reunited Beatles -- don't ask me how, you really do not want to know -- playing live at each one. And, for the trillionaire's personal amusement, a Ryan's Steakhouse all-you-can-eat buffet that's open to the general public, only costs $7.95, and is positioned on a balsa wood bridge spanning an active volcano.

What to do, in a world where one day, you and everyone you love will actually, realistically, physically, be bought and sold? Where the worth of the minerals and trace amounts of gold and aluminum in your bodily fluids will be itemized and reported to you every Christmas morning? I guess you just can't dwell on it.

Besides, you better get to bed, champ. You've got work in the morning.

Macaroni Salad 2: Through the Portal of Time

Hey, there he is! Beastmaster, over here! Put 'er there...

Oh... Beastmaster, this is my wife Sharon. Honey, this is Beastmaster. Just transferred from the home office. Works in accounts payable. Great guy -- wicked back swing. At least, from what I've heard! Ha!

Can we get you a refill there, Beastmaster? This? Oh, yeah, it's half lemonade and half iced tea. Folks call it an "Arnold Palmer." What do you mean, "What is this... lemonade... you speak of?" It's, uh... like... the juice of lemons, with water. And... uh, sugar. Here, just try it --

Whoa! That's a live ferret you got there! He just kinda hangs out in that leather satchel all day? Honey, did you get a look at this? Guy's got a ferret in some kind of bindle around his waist -- whup! There's two! Wild. Just... just wild.

Okay, hon... catch up with you later. She's probably chasing after our youngest, Thad. Gets into all kinds of trouble. You have kids of your own? No? Well, consider yourself lucky, my friend! A man with no family is a man with no worries. Heh.

I'm sorry? No, I don't think that's a dishonorable thing to say. C'mon. Just joshing.

So, anyways... I appreciate you coming out, Beastmaster. Trust me, I been through that whole rigamarole before -- new town, new office, new co-workers. But same old company picnics! Ha! Wife says I've gotta stop welcoming new hires this way, 'cause it's murder on the ol' midsection! "Mitch, I think you just look for excuses to let yourself go." Hey-oh! She's got my number, that's for sure!

We're in therapy. Together. Well, I went for me... and the doctor said she should come for a few, uh... sessions. I think we're making progress.

Whew.

Yeah. So...

Weather's a bit nicer than we thought -- Mark! Mark! C'mere, man. Meet Beastmaster. Just transferred from, uh, I'm sorry -- where was that? Arrok? Yeah, I think that's near Middleview, Mark.

So, anyways... Beastmaster, this is Mark Rutledge. Works over in payroll. So... you might wanna pucker up and start kissing his butt right now! Ha ha!

No, I didn't mean to insinuate anything, Beastmaster. It was just an expression. Mark, you takin' off? Save me a brew-dog!

Hmm. Alright.

You know, we're not technically allowed to have alcohol at company functions, but if Old Man McClendon ain't around, what's the harm, right? It's like I always say: when the cat's away, the mice will -- what's that? No, not an actual cat. Like if McClendon was a cat, and we were the -- forget about it. Not important. Point is, we like to have a little fun. Keeps things light --

Janice! Janice! Hey! Come and press the flesh with our new man in accounts paya -- alright, we'll catch up with you later, then. Great gal.

She's had a lot of personal problems this past year. But you'll get that, from time to time. I mentioned family before, and that was all in jest, but one thing I like people to feel is that their co-workers can function as an extended family of sorts. Really.

You know, if you're ever having a tough time, the door's always open. And trust me -- I've heard it all before.

I used to be the head-down, no-looking-back guy in the office. Mr. Focus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But, yes... me.

Then I had a, well, the doc called it a "minor cardiac episode." Didn't feel so minor when I was on my hands and knees in the kitchen, gasping for air! You know? Yeah, we all have close calls. And we all pull ourselves out, one way or the --

Yes, that is a very impressive blade. You had much use for that, uh, thing? Really?

So, I was saying that we all get into scrapes in this life, and as long as you've -- hmm? Sorry? No, never. Yeah, I've never fallen in a pit of quicksand. Heh. Yeah, I guess that is sort of... amusing.

Anyways, I got out of the hospital and one of the first things McClendon does is send me on one of these corporate retreats. I don't gotta tell you how dull them damned things are -- you know.

Hmm?

No, this was actually just outside Myrtle Beach. Yeah, the uh, the Courtyard by Marriott they got down there. At, uh, Barefoot Landing, I think? Does that sound right? I'm gettin' off-topic here.

But what they tell us at the retreat is this, pure and simple: a happy employee is a productive employee. I mean, we've always thought that. I don't need a guy in laminated nametag to tell me that!

Huh? Yeah, laminated. Like, clear plastic... you know. Uh, yeah, and a small piece of paper with your name on it, and title, office location. Uh...

But yeah, like a family. Family is important.

What's that? Really? I... no, I was not aware of your family's history. Jeez. Slaughtered by a wizard? Are you... are you sure? Wow. Umm --

Wait a minute. Born from a cow? You actually grew inside the womb... of a cow. No, I... I believe you, Beastmaster. Sure.

Yeah, I imagine that would instill in you some sort of mystical bond with the animal world. Some kind of telepathic connection, enabling you to, uh, well... I guess, commune with creatures of every sort -- hey! Have you tried this potato salad? Maureen hits us with this every picnic, and I think it just gets better every darn time. Not too much mustard. And yes, that is dill you taste. Yeah... you talk about a mystical connection! Ha!

I apologize. No, I was not making light of your story, Beastmaster. I would never dream of doing such a thing -- there he is! Thaddie, c'mere! Ha! C'mere! C'mere.

Just come here.

Because I want you to meet someone. Two seconds, Thaddie, that's all it takes. Christ, I'm not asking for the world here.

Thad, this is Beastmaster. Yes, we all know he's not wearing a shirt, Thaddie. Don't be rude.

That's not a diaper, son. They call it a loincloth. Alright, go play. Hmm? No, I... I don't know why Mommy needs the keys to the Astro van. Well, Daddy has them right now. Okay? Thaddie, you see Mommy, you tell her that Daddy will hold on to the keys until he's good and ready to -- alright, bye bye.

Kids. Heh.

Sorry 'bout that... you know, they're just curious. Uh... yeah, I suppose. Inquisitive like the first newt of spring. I guess you could say that.

It's a good community, around here. Cranmar is a good place to raise 'em. I mean, should you ever travel down that dark path! Ha.

Nope. Not an actual dark path. Just a... just a turn of phrase. Huh? Eye of Braxus, you say. Yeah, that sounds... just, uh... wild. I'm sure that was a handful.

Yes, I'm sure you could handle it all very well. Yeah, yeah. The, uh... the prophesy. Sometimes I wonder if there's a kind of, as you say, prophesy... for, for each of us. Really? No, I never thought of it that way. You're an interesting guy, Beastmaster. I think you're gonna fit in just fine.

Yo, Friedman! Friedman, over here!

Yeah, check out my new racquetball partner, buddy! Uh huh, that's right! Yep, you and Loomis are goin' down!

Holy Overwhelming Sense of Powerlessness!

Quite recently, my car was broken into.

In this instance where the realms of automotive well-being and universally accepted bad luck have collided, it is not the specific event that has left me seething with a targetless anger, but the way in which it was carried out. This attempted crime -- be it non-creative vandalism, ill-advised stereo thievery, or just plain old, full-bore car theft -- is offensive in its very half-assedness.

I don't care how quickly, quietly, or expertly these crooks operated -- although they fall nowhere within the dominion of those three adverbs -- whatever they did, they did with a partial ass. Clearly, they were not raised under the auspices of "Hey, when you're out there in the world, don't rob people." But they also were not reared in an environment where their parental figure, or parental figure-like crime boss, would bother to say, "Hey, if you are actually out there robbing people, try and do a decent job of it."

Nope, not these guys.

I'm betting they were just jazzed by completing the first successful step of their grand criminal scheme. Local police like to call this step, Step One: Locating A Honda Civic Parked In A Dark Corner At 3:29 A.M. This, they got right.

So excited were they by the accomplishment of Step One, that they lunged, hearts brimming with pride, right into Step Two: Smashing In The Passenger Side Window With A Brick.

Yeah, these dudes were skillful. They really broke that window all to hell. So much so that when I vacuumed out my car, I found tiny, little, adorable pieces of glass everywhere.

It was not unlike taking a romantic jaunt to the beach with a nice young lady. In that instance, you skip back to the car, the sun shining down on a world where no one ever would think of breaking your windows, and you jump into the bucket seats, laughing about the sand getting everywhere. And for at least a month or two afterwards, every time you grab the stick shift, or reach for a piece of conveniently located dashboard console chewing gum, or just move a little in your seat, you feel a tiny, gritty reminder of that one time when you were so effusive, you actually didn't worry about personal cleanliness for five minutes.

Only now, as I spent a good forty-five minutes suctioning safety glass from my upholstery, I was aware of the flip-side of this phenomenon. Now, for as long as I own this specific car, I will continue to find tiny, blue-rimmed niblets of automotive glass.

November 8, 2005: Hey, there's a little glass shard in my laminated road map. Ah, delightful.

February 12, 2006: Well, there appears to be a gobbet of safety glass lodged in the bridge of my sunglasses. So I've been wearing these for a couple months without noticing that? Good times, good times.

December 23, 2007: Hello! That's a chunk of glass attempting to snuggle inside my rectum, just as I try to merge onto the freeway. Thanks, life.

And no, I'm not going to point out, erroneously and only for the sake of cheap comedy, that safety glass "is neither safe, nor glass." I understand the concept.

In the old days, auto glass was made of big, unwieldy, thoroughly dangerous slabs. Massive glass pieces that were only helpful in that they were semi-transparent. Aside from that, they were altogether deadly. All it took was a tiny tap to the bumper in front of you, and your family wouldn't need to worry about whether to bury you wearing your favorite fedora.

The fantastic thing about safety glass is that while it does not shear off into Trapper Keeper-sized shards at the slightest nudge and then decapitate you, it does shatter into miniscule pieces. And while these are not dagger-like in sharpness, they are still tiny pieces of jagged glass. And tiny pieces of jagged glass, no matter how perfectly square-shaped and cute, are still shitty to have around in large quantities.

So, not counting the damage to your car that is not in excess of your deductible, now you're down about five bucks, because that's how many quarters you'll have to pump into the Suck-It-Up-Yourself auto-vac at the Wash-Your-Own-Goddamned-Car-For-A-Change-You-Elitist-Prick Car Wash on Venice and Redondo.

And really, that's where I take issue with my would-be thieves. Because, as you will see, that's all they amount to, in the end: would-be thieves. Actually, I would almost relegate them to could-be thieves.

After smashing the window, Buck and Donsky (not their real names) went right to work on Step Three: Taking Part In History's Lousiest Attempt At Removing A Car Stereo. Seriously, what were you using, Buck? A butter knife? And what was your back-up tool, Donsky? The blunt end of a hockey stick? Maybe you guys could have slathered the console in caramel, and let a burro lick at it for an hour or two. After what must have been a hilarious six minutes, they never completely removed my factory-installed CD player.

When I discovered it, the CD player face plate dangled pathetically, half out of the dashboard console. If stereos could whimper, this one would've been mewling like a kitten caught in a rainstorm. Ah, could-be thieves. I'm guessing you're not known as the "finesse guys" when you meet with your thief buddies at your local thief watering hole, The Rusty Crowbar. (Try the Breaking-and-Entering B.L.T. Platter -- you'll thank me later!) So there my CD player wavered, a baby tooth that you didn't want to wrench out in the middle of a second-grade math class.

Having successfully completed Step Three, B 'n D leapt face first into Step Four: Searching In Vain For Valuable Items Inside The Vehicle Of A Man Who Has Been Unemployed For The Better Part Of A Calendar Year.

And here's where the crime gets curious, true believers. They stole CDs. Compact discs. But they only stole four of them. I had five in the car at the time. In the interest of full disclosure, the thieves made off with:
- Hello Nasty, by Beastie Boys.
- The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, by David Bowie.
- Saturation, by Urge Overkill.
- Another Round, by Dakota. (Linked on the top right of this page. They're really good.)

The CD they deemed not to take? Pinkerton, by Weezer. One of the finest albums of the '90s. And if you disagree with me, please remember that I have just been victimized and I have rage to spare.

The exclusion of that specific album is indeed vexing. This means I have either been robbed by (a) someone who knows of this album, understands its deep sociological importance to those who graduated high school roughly between the years 1991 and 2002, and took pity on me, or (b) a sick, twisted person who delights in the psychological torment of others. (Linked on the top right of this page. He's really good.)

Then, Buck and Donsky stumbled across Step Five: Insulting The Very Existence Of Your Victim By Stealing His Change. For real. They did this.

So now, every time I roll up to the Del Taco drive-thru at 2:14 a.m., or scrounge for quarters to wash one of my five t-shirts, I will vividly remember that, yes, my car was broken into. "You are never safe, Brad Stevens. Not in this life, nor the next. Because when you are reincarnated as a garden slug or a Colobus monkey, you'll still own a Honda Civic, and it'll still be the fourth most vandalized/stolen car on the market. Nice choice, by the way."

I discovered my abused car the following evening. I got angry. I felt helpless, victimized, a target of crooked bastards. And yes, I realize it could have been much worse. The car itself could've been stolen. Or the car could have been stolen, urinated inside of, and set on fire. Or I could have chanced upon the could-be thieves while they were in the process of breaking into the car. Boy, that would've been... awkward. "Uh... hey, guys. Yeah. That's... that's my car. Not done yet? I could... you know what? I'll just come back later. Okay, cool."

I simmered in a delicious anger broth. But who to blame? Buck and Donsky are nowhere to be found. If they do exist, and are the criminal masterminds they have demonstrated themselves to be, then surely they're partying it up at a Chili's in Torrance by now. No, no, Buck... go ahead and spring for the half-fries, half-onion rings basket. You've earned it.

I can't blame the local police. Judging by the mix of exhaustion and boredom that greeted my late-night appearance at the local precinct, this kind of thing wasn't exactly bringing out their inner, justice-obsessed, cop on the edge.

And I certainly am not going to blame myself. I think, as I have saddled myself with responsibility over personal relationships, general health, mental well-being, and working the word "obsequious" into everyday conversation, that I can cut myself a break in the area of obsessively guarding my car.

Really, there's only one guy to blame. Someone who should have my back. Someone whose very existence is meant to halt the Bucks and the Donskys of this chaotic world.

I blame Batman.

That's right. I blame Batman. Where was this so-called "Caped Crusader," huh? Where was your precious "Dark Avenger of the Night"? When the chips were down, where was ol' "Gray Sweatpants and Blue Cape Guy"? He wasn't watching over my Honda Civic, dear friends.

And don't give me that "his jurisdiction is only Gotham City" crap. The dude's got wings, a car, and a helicopter, last time I checked. He's probably even got some gay-ass rocket sled thing. The point is, crime knows no boundaries, and that winged S.O.B. can get around.

Also, don't even suggest that the crime which befell me is not serious enough to warrant Batman's assistance. Are we going to split hairs here?

"Oh, Batman knows a thing or two about actual serious, life-threatening crimes. After all, his parents were gunned down in cold blood by a common street thug." Yeah, I heard about that. And you know what I say? Boo-friggin'-hoo.

You wanna wage a war on crime, jackass? Start at the bottom and work your way up. Sure, Buck and Donsky don't spray acid at people, or have a weather-controlling machine, or hold the entire city at ransom with an army of genetically enhanced caribou. But their brazen window-smashing and CD-pilfering will quickly escalate into large-scale villainy. Why not nip it in the bud?

Where I come from, when you make a solemn oath to battle criminality in all its heinous forms, you do just that. Wherever the place, whatever the transgression. Get on it, Batman. I don't care if it's just some guy tossing a burrito wrapper on the ground -- I want something done about it, preferably involving a grappling hook and some smoke bombs.

So, maybe Batman's true colors are showing through. He doesn't really care about us. He's too busy making sure "Laguna Beach" is at the top of his TiVo Wish List. He's playing "Halo 2" in the Batcave and sending Alfred out for wasabi-flavored Funyuns. No, no... put up your feet, Batman. We'll just be out here, in the dark and the cold, getting victimized and stuff. See ya around, maybe.

And don't say to me, "Why not be angry at Superman, while you're at it? According to your reasoning, he'd be just as responsible." Because, smart guy, everyone knows that Superman doesn't exist. Don't be a child.

So, Batman, you're on the list. Stay out of my neighborhood. After all, you wouldn't want all the change stolen from your precious Batmobile.

You jerk.

A Pillow Case Full of Emotional Maturity, and Some Bit-O-Honeys

I really don't want to upset you, but politicians are just a bunch of fakes. Dubious, opportunistic, dishonest flim-flammers. There, I said it.

The same lessons that my parents gleaned from, say, Watergate and Vietnam, were thrust upon me on a chilly October night. The mayor lived down the street from me when I was a kid, and I witnessed his Boss Tweed-esque power grabs and shameless vote-mongering firsthand. And I think he tossed some gerrymandering in there, to boot.

Now, I don't intend to slander the man. I'm just angling for some moderate smearing here. Look, being the mayor of a mid-sized suburban city has gotta be a little trying. I'm sure he had his hands full, what with the intricacies of public park lawn mowing schedules, worrying if the height of the new Perkins sign jibed with zoning laws, and trying to stop kids from climbing the water tower near the middle school. So, I would allow a little duplicity on his part. But he distinctly targeted the youth of my town to sway our parents' votes. Bear witness, and prepare to have your faith in human decency shaken to its very foundation.

While he was in office, and especially in a year where he was running for re-election, he gave every trick-or-treater a Baby Ruth bar. I want to be absolutely clear on this issue: we are not talking about the "Fun-Size" Baby Ruth here. Nay. He would dispense full-sized Baby Ruth bars.

For added clarification, I'm not referring to the "King-Sized" ones, because they didn't have those when I was younger. And for the record, may I also take issue with the term "Fun-Size"? Is it "fun" to be given exactly .59 ounces of candy, and no more? Really, the current "King-Sized" candy bars should be called "Fun-Sized," and then "King-Sized" can be preserved for the day they make a Zagnut the size of the Moai heads on Easter Island. Then just call the tiny Baby Ruth bars "Thoroughly Insulting-Sized," and be done with it.

These distinctions are important, because a few years back, America's fine candymakers went crazy with the endless candy iterations. You had Kit Kats' "Big Kats," that were so ridiculously huge, they were often, tragically, mistaken for railroad ties. The problem in blowing up a Kit Kat to DeLuisian proportions is that it throws off the delicate balance of chocolate and sweetened fiberglass insulation strips that makes the candy so beloved in the first place.

Reese's Cups tried the same thing, with their "Big Cup," which, aside from sounding mildly inappropriate, also saddled you with way too much peanut butter. By around bite number three -- or, as it is known in candy circles, bite "tha-three" -- the filling took on the consistency of tub grout. Then you had a life-threatening peanut butter wad in your throat. I can't help but think that H. B. Reese's original mission statement for his company did not involve smothering the loyal consumer with four pounds of peanut butter.

But these Wonka-bees couldn't be stopped, not when there were scads of ways to mutate candy. They unleashed the "reverse" Reese's Cup, which was peanut butter on the outside, and chocolate creme on the inside. Patently unnecessary. Maybe someone will make grillable dough patties, and you can slap them in between two refrigerated slices of burger. Then, put your pants on backwards, dress your children as animals, and hot-glue your television to the ceiling, just to complete the illusion. This is candy, folks, not some bizarre sensory-depravation experiment.

Then there's the white chocolate Reese's Cup, which I guess was made specifically for a high-society dinner party, since the pre-existing Reese's Cups clashed with Lady Dorrington's Persian throw pillows. Really, why stop there, Reese's mad scientists? Why not paint tiny goatees on a Reese's Cup and call them Rafael Cups: Reese's Cups' Long Lost, Presumed Dead Evil Twin Brother? Or introduce Reese's Bleeding Cups, and pump a couple ounces of stage blood in there, so America's children can pretend they're a cast member from "Red Dawn," and eating a fistful of fresh deer meat?

It has to stop somewhere, yes? The laundromat near my apartment, while lacking the one cosmically unifying laundromat device -- a Ms. Pac-Man machine -- does have a vending machine with, honestly, six different varieties of Skittles. Tropical Punch. Sour. Original Gangsta Skittles. Cran-Banana-Berry-tastic. Gravy-Dipped. Heroes of the French-Indian War Flavored Skittles.

The endless tampering with time-tested foodstuffs calls to mind the Cap'n Crunch offshoot called, "Oops! All Berries!" It's really encouraging that Quaker Oats responded to the overwhelming demand for a berry-centric breakfast cereal, but why do they feel the need to have an actual explanation for the product's existence? And why must said explanation involve some sort of factory mishap? Especially one that appears to be a major processing snafu at the Crunch Berries sorting facility in White Plains, New York.

"Yipes! Shift supervisor Randy McClellan forgot to properly lubricate the Hydraulic Berry Dispenser! We could start over, but our CEO is a diminutive sea captain, and his mind has been warped by scurvy! So now our egregious error is a cereal!"

"Uh-oh! Our vice-president Trent Connersly just found out that his wife is leaving him for a younger man! And that means he's on the booze again! Cap'n would fire Trent, but he saved the then-Petty Offic'r Crunch's life during the war! Nonetheless, that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the by-product of Connersly's precipitous slide into self-destruction!"

"Yowza! We have absolutely no idea how to safely package food! We're just making this up as we go along, people! Your very purchase is a gamble with mortality! Therefore, enjoy our new Cap'n Crunch's 'Oops! All Glass Shards!' Cereal!"

So, yeah... the town's mayor lived just down the street, and every year he'd give us the large Baby Ruth bars. It wouldn't have seemed odd, save for the first Halloween following his defeat in the mayoral election. That year, due to either campaign overspending, or, more likely, sheer spite towards the good people of warm and cheerful Centerville, he handed out tiny boxes of Boston Baked Beans.

Boston Baked Beans are not actual beans, nor are they baked. They're candy-coated peanuts. And they are made by a candy company based out of Chicago. So I guess Half-Assed, No-Chocolate-Having M&M's From Northern Illinois wouldn't fit on the box.

There I stood, my homemade mummy costume -- a couple rolls of Charmin single-ply -- blowing in tatters down the street, my feet cold from traipsing through dewy lawns. From now on, things would be different. Confusing, frustrating, and far too big for me to comprehend.

The harvest moon hung bloated and orange in the night sky. Somewhere, a dog barked. And the American two-party political system creaked forward, unbeknownst to the nameless, faceless horde.

And elsewhere, in a darkened office, an old man dreamt of a Junior Mint the size of a hubcap. And he laughed, long and hard.

These Claims Of Yours, They Are Not Small

Ladies and gentlemen, the legal system is broken. There is no joy in Lawville. Matlock has left the building.

Take your pick.

I recently took a head-spinning trip through the twisting, turning, rabid squirrel-infested Enchanted Forest of Small Claims Court. I won't bore you with the details of what got me there, other than to say it involved myself, a slightly older lady, the most minor of car accidents, and one of us -- bonus points for guessing correctly -- claiming injuries several months after the fact.

I will not recount the accident itself, because (a) it has no real bearing on anything, (b) it has little intrinsic comedic value, but mostly because (c) retelling a Car Accident Story falls somewhere between the retelling of a Dumped By a Girl in the Parking Lot of a Dokken Concert Story and the retelling of a Trying to Pee in a Big Gulp Cup on a Long Road Trip Story. It's right around there in terms of unsavory details.

Needless to say, I don't get sued all that much. In fact, aside from the time I stole a piece of Root Beer Barrel hard candy from a Brach's Pic-N-Mix display at the age of 6, I have never run afoul of the law. (And for the record, yes, I burst into tears upon leaving the establishment, and wailed to my unsuspecting Mom about how I had committed a serious offense. I was ordered to march back into the store and replace the candy. I consider myself very lucky. If we were in Thailand at the time, I would now be nicknamed "Lefty." Or perhaps even "Lefty One-Eye McLimps-A-Lot.")

So, this world of legal entanglements was just all so freaking new to me. But let me tell you... there is no rush quite like the first time you are served with papers. Man, it's great. Okay, maybe by "great," I mean "embarrassing." And maybe by "embarrassing," I actually mean, "wholly and thoroughly emasculating." But let's not split hairs.

It was a lovely August morning. As I am unemployed, this means I was stumbling around the apartment in my underwear. Important decisions lie ahead of me on this day. Should I take a shower now, or later in the day? What? No shower at all? That's so crazy it just might work. So... how much celery in tuna salad, really, is "too much celery"? Yep, still unemployed. Are dark forces gathering strength, conspiring against me, gradually gearing up for a swift, undeserved karmic kick to the ballsack? Naw, can't be. Then, a knock at the door. Why, this could mean almost anything!

"Mr. Stevens?" chirped the non-threatening male voice behind the door.
"Uh... yes?"
"I have a package for you, sir!"

A package! For me? For me, "Mr. Stevens"? Golly! Whatever could it be?

I open the door, still in boxer shorts, mind you, and a clutch of paperwork is thrust inside. If you are not used to this, here's what will happen: your hand, under its own power, rises up to grab the thing being shoved at you. At 8:12 a.m., the brain -- not that it's any more dependable at, say, 3:47 p.m. -- will not be able to process things fast enough. So your hand shoots up and helpfully takes hold of the Legally Binding Issuance of Court Documents. Hey, thanks a lot, hand. Good job.

At this point, brain woke up, and as the owner of the non-threatening male voice turned and walked away, all I could do was let out a small, wounded sound, like a hamster having a nightmare. "Hernh--!"

Then came the rage. Yea! Don't need any coffee this morning! My old college buddy Rage has swung by for a surprise visit, at 8:13 a.m.! And as I watched the non-threatening process server skipping down my steps, I barked at him:

"A PACKAGE?!"

See, what made me even more angry than the sudden realization that I was being sued was that I was led to believed there was some kind of parcel involved. Process server turned, gave me a little smile, and said, "Yes, just papers... for small claims court." So... no gift, Barry? Barry, I expected more from you.

And then Barry skipped off, to ruin somebody else's Friday morning. I'm not a horrible person, and I realize that Barry was just doing his job. But when human civilization is finally, at long last, conquered by super-intelligent apes, I really hope Barry gets saddled with a job as Assistant Gorilla Ass-Wiper. And every time I pass him on the way to my new job as Human Writer/Producer on the The Late Ape Show with Chimp Chimperson, I will laugh like a four-year-old in the ball pit at Showbiz Pizza.

I spin off into a month-long period of anxiously awaiting the big day in court. I have numerous conversations with my Helpful Yet Affordably Priced Insurance Company. They're nice people. They try to help, really. Did I mention that they are affordably priced?

My insurance company calls me at least twice a week. They never really say anything I actually want to hear.

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. This is Janice over at A.I.S. I don't know how I found out before you, but you just won the 250 million-dollar Powerball jackpot!"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice at A.I.S. again. It appears that the plaintiff in your small claims case has been repeatedly struck by lightning. And her husband tried to follow through with the lawsuit, until he was crushed by a boulder. Weird, huh?"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice. Yeah, from A.I.S. For some reason, I've gotten numerous messages from your ex-girlfriends. They just wanted you to know that the guy they left you for is nowhere near as funny as you."

None of that. They just keep reminding me that (a) I am named in a lawsuit and (b) it's usually good if you show up on time to those things, and at the right location. And since I am (a) acutely aware of the impending lawsuit and (b) not a newborn baby, these calls are sort of unnecessary.

While I am a bit of a pessimist, I am not given to all-out despair. So, my interior monologue went into overdrive, trying to preserve my very tender ego. "Hey, nothing you can do about this, Champ. Just weather the storm. Look, Chief... these things happen. You are not being punished. See here, Chester... you will be exonerated. Is that even the right word? And really, was that 'too much celery'? I mean, come on."

Pathetically, my biggest concern the night before the court date was whether or not I should shave. Scoff all you want. When you're unemployed, you turn everything into a Potential But Not Very Lucrative Job. So at this stage, my latest job was growing a sweet mustache. And I gotta tell ya, it had just reached the sweet stage. It looked like I'd been cast in the lead role in "The Rollie Fingers Story."

I had already decided that business casual dress was the way to go. A full suit could come off as a hip, quasi-ironic, smart-ass statement to the judge. And my standard attire of cargo shorts and a mildly pit-stained t-shirt was unadvisable, as well. So, I had a dress shirt, khakis -- even a tie! -- all set aside. Because, hell, I gotta look respectable if I'm gonna try and call a middle-aged woman a liar in a court of law.

Thinking this much about what to wear to small claims court sort of reveals how obsessed I was with the whole situation. "Surely, the judge will see my blue tie and throw out the case!" And putting this much stock into outside appearances is a bit like assuming that the keyboard player from Prince & the Revolution could perform cranial surgery because he wore scrubs and a stethoscope.

Fearing severe judicial punishment, I sent my beloved mustache, screaming and crying, to the bottom of the sink. Sometimes, when pondering, I reach up to see what mustache thinks... and... and... he's not there. The wounds are still fresh, you see.

So, bitterly clean-shaven and mildly respectable-looking, I go to small claims court. There it sat before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division. What, no "Hall of Justice"? C'mon, at least make it sort of fun. Put some guys in suits of armor outside. Maybe a three-headed dog at the door. Something. Jeez.

In I go. If you need to see more wood paneling than existed in all of 1973, I have an address for you. Small claims court is designed to suck the fight out of you. Abandon free will, all who enter here. What's that? You have faith in the inherent decency of your fellow man? Well, just leave that in this plastic receptacle. You won't be needing it in here.

There's little to report about the actual case. I was sort of nervous. Public speaking, in an officious, accurate manner, is not my strong suit. I thought, nerves aside, that the blue tie would have my back. Blue tie let me down.

I lost the case. But I found out the next day, via mail, because they didn't want me to fly into a blind rage and tear up small claims court, I guess. "What do you want?! You want my blood?! TAKE IT!" I honestly harbored a fantasy of recreating the opening scene of "Superman: the Movie." (And, for that matter, the recap at the beginning of "Superman II.")

"You will bow down before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division! You will bow down before me, Judge Pro Tem Monica Feingold! No matter that it takes an eternity! You will bow down before me! Both you, and then one day, your heirs!"

Nope. No big dramatic pronouncements for me. No justice on that day.

But I remain unbroken, true believers. And should the shadow of frivolous injury claims ever darken your door, you look that lying middle-aged woman in the Toyota Camry straight in the eye, and you tell her -- you tell 'em all...

You tell 'em Mustache is coming back to town, and Goatee's coming with him! Yaaaarrr!