Jenny Jones
"My parents didn't love me."
Actually they did. But that's what I'll say to the prosecuting attorney. It will catch her off guard. She'll realize the harsh reality of my situation and then I'll glare, teary eyed at the jury and plead, "can't you people forgive me for what I've done?" The judge will have to interrupt my outburst with his gavel shouting, "Silence!" and there will be a muffled stirring in the courthouse. Women will fidget with their dresses or pretend to look out the window. Men will clear their throats or resettle in their seats . Unintelligeble words will be whispered in various locations, the wooden room will creak under the weight of anxiety. Somehow, like on television, a dramatic emphasis will be put onto the statue of Justice. Her scales will tilt as if some force beyond our comprehension has cast its breath onto it. Her blindfold will fall away like a piece a velvet. My innocence will be carved into the stone of each jury member's mind.
Prosecuting attorneys are always women in my mind. That's because of Disney movies. More often than not, Cruella DeVille, Mileficent, wiked stepmothers and treacherous stepsisters, octopus witches, and evil queens want your heart torn out and put in a box.
I am the victim here. Forget that body they found. It feels so good to say that. Being a victim is like getting a Jenny Jones makeover. You're suddenly someone completely clean and new. You can start your life again from that point on. Jenny Jones would be a frightening prosecuting lawyer. She'd show up in some kind of animal print suit, with her hair done dangerously by the mod girl with tattoos and that Bettie Page look. But this would be the next day, and Jenny wouldn't quite remember how to style it properly, so it would be a rats nest with an edge. When cross examining me, she'd say things like, "You've really dug yourself in deep this time. Good luck climbing out," and "you're a real piece of work," and "Is someone eating a tuna sandwich in here, because something smells fishy," and other prophetic truths. You probably don't recognize that last phrase. That's because I made it up. The funny thing would be if someone in the courtroom really was eating a tuna sandwich. The irony would be too much and Jenny would probably fly off the handle, cursing like a pirate and swinging at anyone who comes within five feet of her. I have this strong feeling that Jenny Jones can't stand irony because she can't really define it.
On a different note, on the way to work today I saw a tree that had turned red and yellow already. It couldn't wait i guess. Everything else is still mostly green. I admire it's forwardness and willingness to establish something.
Actually they did. But that's what I'll say to the prosecuting attorney. It will catch her off guard. She'll realize the harsh reality of my situation and then I'll glare, teary eyed at the jury and plead, "can't you people forgive me for what I've done?" The judge will have to interrupt my outburst with his gavel shouting, "Silence!" and there will be a muffled stirring in the courthouse. Women will fidget with their dresses or pretend to look out the window. Men will clear their throats or resettle in their seats . Unintelligeble words will be whispered in various locations, the wooden room will creak under the weight of anxiety. Somehow, like on television, a dramatic emphasis will be put onto the statue of Justice. Her scales will tilt as if some force beyond our comprehension has cast its breath onto it. Her blindfold will fall away like a piece a velvet. My innocence will be carved into the stone of each jury member's mind.
Prosecuting attorneys are always women in my mind. That's because of Disney movies. More often than not, Cruella DeVille, Mileficent, wiked stepmothers and treacherous stepsisters, octopus witches, and evil queens want your heart torn out and put in a box.
I am the victim here. Forget that body they found. It feels so good to say that. Being a victim is like getting a Jenny Jones makeover. You're suddenly someone completely clean and new. You can start your life again from that point on. Jenny Jones would be a frightening prosecuting lawyer. She'd show up in some kind of animal print suit, with her hair done dangerously by the mod girl with tattoos and that Bettie Page look. But this would be the next day, and Jenny wouldn't quite remember how to style it properly, so it would be a rats nest with an edge. When cross examining me, she'd say things like, "You've really dug yourself in deep this time. Good luck climbing out," and "you're a real piece of work," and "Is someone eating a tuna sandwich in here, because something smells fishy," and other prophetic truths. You probably don't recognize that last phrase. That's because I made it up. The funny thing would be if someone in the courtroom really was eating a tuna sandwich. The irony would be too much and Jenny would probably fly off the handle, cursing like a pirate and swinging at anyone who comes within five feet of her. I have this strong feeling that Jenny Jones can't stand irony because she can't really define it.
On a different note, on the way to work today I saw a tree that had turned red and yellow already. It couldn't wait i guess. Everything else is still mostly green. I admire it's forwardness and willingness to establish something.
posted by Joshua Oshua at 5:12 PM
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