Jury Duty ( Yet Another Poor Tax) is not the Same Difference as Howdy Duty

OK. Here I am, arrived at jury duty. Dern. It’s a trap. They have sprung a trap on me. This process is rigged and they have totally trapped me. Mercy!

How did I, Crumby Ovate, immediately recognize that I was trapped like a rat. Good Goddess! My jury number printed on my jury card was, mercy me oh my, four. Good Goddess! How did the responsible parties get my number?! Once I saw that number four, I knew the jig was up. There was no point struggling. I was destined to have to serve on the jury. Yes. Life as a juror was my destiny. It was four for the Crumby Ovate.

Is there any reason any of you feel like you can’t serve on this jury?

The number four froze me. I couldn’t speak up. I couldn’t explain to everyone about my chronic sinusitis. All I could do was sit there and cough, sadly and feebly. Hack, hack, hack. Yes. I had to sit there, condemned almost to silence, as those afflicted with bad hearts and recent brain surgery shirked their duty.

Oh my Goddess! It was terrible. Those seats they make all the poor prospective jurors sit in are smaller than usual. Those seats might actually be kiddie seats. Course prospective juror number 5 was heavy set, so he naturally spilled over into my seat. Oh my Goddess! Since we were required to get up and down a great many times, number five kept jostling me. Mercy! I wanted to scream. Help me Goddesss! Get me out of here! Mercy! But there I was, number 4, trapped like a rat.

I sat there almost silent, coughing, as the halt, the lepers, the deaf and dumb weasled out of jury duty. But not me. I was on the jury. But at least I got to move to a bigger chair.