All posts by X Teri

Jury Duty Aftermath

 

As I predicted, the jury pool for the trial of Samuel Robert Hill in Washington County, Arkansas ignored his mental illness defense and threw the book at him.

Whether he was really mentally ill isn’t something I can be certain of, as I didn’t get to hear the evidence that the jury heard during trial. On the other hand, I didn’t enter the jury process with a predisposed belief that mental illness isn’t a ‘real’ thing, either, or that even though the law says juries must take them into account, that mental illness should never be used to defend someone – and if it is, it should be ignored. Also, while I didn’t hear the evidence in the same way as the jury did, I did read it, including many things which were kept away from the jury during the trial. In some ways, I had a more complete picture and better information than they did. That’s how trials, work, though. The distinction in my case is that I heard some of the potential jurors say they didn’t believe in mental illness and that it can’t be used to mitigate a crime or its punishment. While I was dismissed for some unknown reason, citizens were left to serve on the jury who legally didn’t qualify, given their beliefs and biases about mental illness. Maybe the opposing psychiatrists had different levels of credibility or the defendant’s mother was a better witness than her sister, who testified for the defendant. Truth be told, though, none of it really mattered if enough mental illness-deniers got seated on the jury. Most of them wouldn’t admit they believe such things, as it sounds stupid to admit, just as bigots know they can’t claim that certain minorities are better at sports or that some are just angrier people – they believe it in their hearts but have been conditioned to conceal these bigoted or stereotypical ideas from everyone else.

I know that there are people who don’t believe in mental illness, people who think such sufferers can just ‘snap out it,’ or just get busy to distract themselves. It’s almost insurmountable to get past that kind of attitude in people. It’s not based on evidence or science, so argument and reason won’t get you around their mental block.

Likewise, many of those in the jury pool said that they were certain that if a defendant didn’t get on the stand, that this indicated either deceit or outright guilt. Despite the judge and the defense pointing out that this attitude was not acceptable if you were going to serve on a jury, several of those people also remained and undoubtedly served on the jury. Deciding to not testify is a fundamental right in criminal trials. It’s a foundation of our system. Especially if a defendant’s case rests on the idea that he or she is mentally ill, it is ludicrous to hold that against them. The law is clear: you can’t hold it against a defendant. As a citizen, of course you can. Many of the jurors ignored the law and should not have been on the jury deciding a person’s fate. Like most people, those who believe it know they can’t just admit such a belief in the face of scrutiny; they’ll justify or rationalize their bias and tell us that they can decide a case, not realizing that such a bias infects everything that filters through their eyes and ears.

(PS  Another bias that I heard people admit to: people charged with crimes are overwhelmingly guilty. Which may or may not be true – but again, jurors aren’t supposed to have this bias.)

I wrote the defense attorney in the trial a couple of times, as he wanted to know my opinion as an outsider. Much of what I wrote in my previous blog post I included in my email to him. The premise of my reply was that I knew before I ever left the building that day during jury selection that the jury pool wasn’t one I would ever want on a trial wherein me or my family was a defendant. There was too much bias. I told the attorney that I guessed every major aspect of the trial and its outcome, both in its decision and punishment. I was careful to not point fingers at a specific person, but I did my best to convey the overwhelming specifics that I observed, all of which combined left me with the idea that the jury pool wasn’t one that should have been hearing that case. In sort, I told the attorney that no matter what he had said or done once the trial started, the conclusion was predetermined. Had the prosecutor been the worst to have ever served, he would have won the case with that jury pool.

Some potential jurors knew more about the case than they admitted, too, and some had access to information after jury selection started. In the age of cellphones, it’s probably impossible to eliminate such temptations. I had some recommendations for different kinds of questions to help weed out these people. I could easily sit and watch a jury pool and come up with easy questions to make them uncomfortable- and more forthcoming and honest during jury selection.

The defense attorney told me that it was apparent that I was exactly the type of juror that both sides needed.

But we’ll never know. My opinion of jury selection and trials went down a notch and I’m left with the feeling, no matter what ‘really’ was the case, that the wrong jury was probably seated.

 

 

The Beer and Pantyhose Story

1686323

(The following story is one I was asked to write down yesterday. Please forgive any errors. It’s as true of a story as you’ll ever read and one that sometimes comes to mind when I’m driving near Noel, Missouri.)

The Beer & Pantyhose Story

Years ago, Bill Qualls needed someone to help him move some timber off his cousin’s property, near a bend in Elk River, over by Noel, Missouri. Since no one else was available, he called me and came by to pick me up. For three hours, he watched in amused irritation as I did literally everything wrong. I broke out both taillights of his pickup and then managed to crack the rear glass of the cab. I reminded him that my labor was free and kept on piling the timber across the truck.

After I dropped the same piece of wood on his hand twice, Bill decided that we were as done as we were ever going to be, and that he wanted to go get a beer. (Later, after the night’s excitement, it seemed like he was trying to get me killed – or at least get me prominently pictured on the back of some milk cartons.)

As we took several obscure turns in increasingly dark tree-lined roads, we hit a dirt road that seemed to be about four feet wide. Bill turned down the static-filled a.m. radio and said, “Now X, you gotta be careful in this place. These are deep woods folks. Don’t be doing or saying anything weird like you enjoy doing. Just keep your piehole closed and listen. And don’t ask them to play any Vanilla Ice on the jukebox, either.”

I looked at Bill as if he had just accused me of offering to kill his grandmother. “Of course, Bill, I’ll be on my best behavior. You won’t even know I’m there.” Bill cut me a look of suspicion, as if I weren’t capable of being normal for five minutes.

Bill took a sharp left and drove off into a holler, or so it seemed. There was a deep, narrow dirt road leading to a dimly-lit cabin front. I could make out a long building, probably about 75 feet long. Where the front porch should have been was a large sign with mostly burned-out bulbs, indicating “Beer Here.”

“That’s clever, Bill. Is the competition called ‘Beer There,’ or ‘Friends in Really Low Places’ or what?” I giggled.

Bill said, “That’s exactly what I don’t want to hear once we go in there. Just keep it down.”

“Calm down, you worry too much. It’s all good.” I smiled. And then added, “I hope they have Perrier water, though.”

As we pulled up, I could see dark figures sitting on old stumps, smoking and drinking. Their voices seemed to be speaking some exotic language.

Within one minute of entering the bar, we were already in danger of needing our organ donation cards.

Let me back up a little bit, though. And it was probably closer to 20 seconds, anyway.

As we went inside, I started coughing. The air was so thick with cigarette smoke that it felt like I was breathing cotton into my lungs. I followed Bill, still trying to get some clean air into my body. I leaned over, trying to get leverage to stop coughing.

“Hey boy, get your damned hand off my pool table!” I looked up to see the meanest, ugliest imitation of a man-bear hybrid I’d ever seen. At the same time, I realized that I had leaned over and put my hand directly on the cue ball, interrupting the pool game already in progress.

I don’t know what possessed me to say it, but I blurted out, “Why are you so fixated on these balls?” And I kept coughing.

I heard a whoosh go by my ear and I heard Bill gasp in surprise. Bear-Man hybrid had swung his pool stick by the narrow end, attempting to hit me in the temple with the wide end of it. He missed, either from the fog of smoke or due to the quantity of cheap beer he had already drank.

But he did successfully hit Boss, another large ugly man standing to my left, who turned out to be both his cousin and uncle. The cue stick hit him solidly on the forehead. Boss grunted and started to fall. As he did, he grabbed me and started pulling me down. I held on to the cue ball I already had my hand on and threw it crazily pass Bear-Man hybrid’s face. The ball sailed past him and hit another monster of a man seated with his back to the pool table. I could see Monster’s head turn and come to the wrong conclusion that Bear-Man Hybrid had just him in the back with the cue stick. As I fell past the edge of the table toward the floor, Monster was already out of his chair, kicking it backwards, ready to fight. I knew that half the bar was going to jump in and fight anyone already standing up. In my mind, I was already planning Bill’s funeral – assuming I survived the encounter myself.

I heard Bill shriek like someone had just pulled his underwear so hard that his grandkids could feel it. I could hear glass shatter and then grunting. As I hit the floor, Boss’ hand came loose from my arm. He was out cold. I crawled under the filthy pool table and jumped out the other side, standing about 10 feet from Bill, who was now engaged in fisticuffs with another bar patron. I had the impression that said bar patron was trying to use Bill’s head as a human cymbal.

I turned to run back through the fog toward what I presumed to be the front door. Just as I did, Bill’s voice rang out with an odd vibrato, probably from just recently being hit like a cymbal by a fist larger than my entire head.

“Where are you going?” Bill hollered at me as I moved away.
“I gotta go put on some pantyhose!” I screamed, in order to be heard over the boisterous crowd
.
“What? Pantyhose? What are you talking about?” Bill stood up, ignoring the fist flying past him. Curiosity had taken over.

“You told me if I ever got into a fight and was gonna choke someone, I had to do it with pantyhose.” I thought this explained it all nicely. Words had always come easily to me, whether they made any sense or not.

The entire fight came to a complete standstill, and a couple of fighters literally stopped their fists in mid-air, with looks of incredulity on their faces. (Although if I had said the word “incredulity” at that point, most of the bar would have resumed trying to kill us and each other, mistaking the word for an insult. There probably was a county-wide ban on four-syllable words, anyway.)

For two infinite seconds, the bar was deadly silent. We could all hear the hum of the decrepit air conditioner struggling to run and cool the room.

As quietly as the oldest lady in church, Bill’s voice squeaked out: “No, you choke the guy WITH the pantyhose, not WHILE you have pantyhose on. That’ll give the wrong impression.”

Everyone turned toward Bill, still not quite understanding the confusion. Bill shrugged his shoulders and said, “X is from Arkansas. He’s not much of a fighter.”

The laughter erupted immediately and grew into a horrible crescendo of drunken mockery. Some of the guys who had been prepared to bite off noses and gouge eyes were doubled over, holding their stomachs, laughing like 8 month-old babies.

By the time Bill and I got out of that bar, we had bought 63 beers for our new friends. Bear-Man Hybrid actually liked the nickname I had given him, even though he told me his Christian name was Alfonso – which in no way matched his appearance. His cousin/uncle Boss showed me his library card to prove his real name was Beard. He wasn’t sure why I thought it was so funny that he owned a library card. It turned out that Beard loved reading Agatha Christie novels. As for me, I lied and told them my name was “X” thanks to the witness protection program.

As we drove away, we were both making promises to lead an upstanding life, having just come as close to death as would be humanly possible.

I asked Bill many times to take me back to that bar to relive old memories. Each time I did, he would mumble something about not having enough insurance to cover it and change the subject.

Memory Day Each Day

tert

Starting the day with a gift of 5 lbs. of wild birdseed to Jimmy, scattering it for the birds to feed on noisily. The birdsong isn’t Metallica, but I would imagine that it is as close to heavenly as could be devised. There were no muffin-fetching dogs to scamper about, nor cacophonous, mischievous laughs to startle passersby – but there were echoes of these, fluttering in the late May breeze, above the creek, below the sky, observing us all. Memorials aren’t events; they are memories of daily life, shared moments that fade into whispers as we recall them. With love to Jimmy and the world he ineloquently slipped away from.

 

“If you say these words aloud, in soft awe, you may summon the times you would ask to revisit.” – X

T-Minus Now

 

 

Due to some confusion, friends in other states were telling us to be safe tonight and to spread the word. I called 367 people in Springdale and asked them to turn off Fox News and never watch it again, before finding out it was a weather warning they had been worried about.

.

54342342

.

Anyone who publicly states that they dislike Sloppy Joes is immediately a suspect individual. Run from them. (PS: There are vegetarian versions, too.)

.

Really, really bad joke – read at your own risk! “Can you imagine the horror if you thought you were reading Braille and it turned out to be herpes?”

.

As a wise person pointed out: “…Laughing at a bad joke doesn’t mean you condone ridicule of the person or subject in question. It means you are acknowledging the humor you display when you think no one is listening.”

.

They told me to practice safe sex. The guy at the bank was angry and told me to get out of there, especially if I didn’t know the combination. It’s wise to always get a complete explanation of things before trying them.

.

I not only want to know who wrote the book of love, as the song indicates, but also who wrote the preface of the book of love.

.

There are folks who think a “seat belt” is a term to describe a left hook from the driver while the passenger isn’t looking.

.

I tried to turn Fox News off a few nights ago but alas it had defeated me: it had turned me off years ago.

.

Ballet: the only dance method invented by aliens.

.

My wife wasn’t amused when I pointed out that fig newtons taste a lot like tobacco if you think about it. (They really do.)

.

trump map

While I would rather be forced to sit on an increasingly larger series of conical objects than have Trump become president, if there is any consolation for me is that I’m a middle-aged white guy, the political equivalent of the ruling class. I can hide in plain sight and no one will know I’m a crazy liberal. (PS: And I made a map just for giggles…)

.

 

A Zen Metaphor

sdfsdf.jpg

.

I met a shadow of myself on the path. My shadow was returning to reminisce and relive memories, while I walked to find original meaning. Meanwhile, the path laid at our feet. (A Zen metaphor for a late Tuesday.)

lesni-cesta-14265363355do

Gongzilla

This is a true story, and my wife was a witness and/or victim to it… Gongzilla. Inside the Fayetteville Auto Park Honda dealership, there is a gong to the right as one enters the main building. That thing beckoned and whispered to me like a syringe of heroin. In my defense, I initially didn’t do it because a nice lady with a very small baby came in and sat down with her back to the door. I was afraid she would throw the baby across the room in startled surprise if I gonged her without warning. Thrown babies, no matter the circumstance, usually don’t cause the desired comedic response, despite the oft-cited “baby with the bath water” cliché.

At the right time, I casually made my way to the door, acting nonchalantly and without indication I was going to grab the hammer. Two staff members were to my right and when they were both distracted, I quickly removed the soft hammer hanging on the right of the 4-foot gong, reared back like Hank Aaron, and swung that gong hammer as if I were Thor after losing my hammer for six weeks.

I hit that gong so hard that the gentleman to the right of the door almost swallowed his dentures. It was amazing! The gong resonated so loudly that it seemed as if the windows bulged like the walls did in “The Matrix.” Even I was shocked how loudly the gone echoed. Most of the staff applauded and laughter erupted. Several people seemed as if they wished they had worn adult diapers for accidents as they turned or half-jumped up from their comfortable chairs. No coffee or soda was thrown and luckily, no one bit off the end of their tongue. There were a few curse words that drifted lazily in the air, mostly drowned out by the godlike bomb drop of the gong’s metallic thunder. Afterwards, it occurred to me that it was also nice that no one suffering from PTSD or possessing a concealed carry permit over-reacted, either.

Forget a trip to Portland or hiking the trails of Asia. For me, nothing can compare to the zeal and happiness of that Zen moment that I almost caused cardiac arrest for those people unlucky to have been in the room the day I couldn’t overcome my urge to bang the gong. Call me Gongzilla if you wish. I didn’t even know that such a bong strike was on my bucket list. Thank you, life, for giving me the chance to express myself in a way that I didn’t even know I needed! Love, X

 

20160422_070014

 

.

 

Only slightly less popular than Jason’s Deli… Jason’s Urinal.

jasons urinal.jpg

As John Cage from Ally McBeal often said, “This pleases me.” I know you already think I am crazy, but this made me laugh more than you can imagine. It is a picture of the urinal at Jason’s Deli in Fayetteville yesterday morning.

.

Given the number of people dying at the summit of Mt. Everest, am I the only one who has come up with the idea of renaming it Mr. Foreverest?

.

He’s Got a Ticket To Ride

Don_Knotts_Barney_and_the_bullet_Andy_Griffith_Show

 

Since moving from one side of Springdale to the other, I relish no longer traversing the jurisdiction of one small town in particular, which I will call TownBetween. While there are several fine officers there, it is strange to me that so many hilariously cringe-worthy stories continue to originate from there – yet, the fans of this police force vainly try to insist that there isn’t a problem, and that if you aren’t breaking the law, you have nothing to fear. Let me be the first to argue this point: where there is smoke, there is fire, and where there are short haircuts with batons and blank ticket books, there is trouble. Reputation once lost takes an insurmountable level of work to regain. When I drive through TownBetween, I constantly tap my brake, even if I’m driving so slowly that skateboarders are passing me. I look closely at the roadside, scanning intensely for either properly designated police vehicles, or million dollar Hummers and dark, deeply tinted ninja attack force vehicles paid for and maintained through what I can only to presume to be black magic. I worry that I won’t be able to show my papers quickly enough, as if I am trying to illegally cross a border during WWII. I won’t have to wipe my rear brake lights with a polishing cloth, in case the officers of TownBetween need a proposed reason to pull me over, nor will I need to use lab equipment to check my headlight brightness, tint thickness, or tread depth. Paranoia is a required trait for daily travel there and a CSI forensics degree will be helpful to you if you foolishly drive through there with any regularity. I don’t want to feel as if I’ll be in the basement of a hidden jail somewhere awaiting extradition to Poland.

One of the best aspects of moving across Springdale is that my exposure to TownBetween has lessened. I don’t want this to be an indictment of other departments, of course, but comparisons inevitably lead to less-than-stellar commentary. I love Springdale and I have never had a direct issue with a Fayetteville police office, even when I was really young and stupid. I’m old and stupid now, of course. I wrote this a couple of weeks after moving across town. Recent articles and comments lead me to realize that it’s still something a lot of people talk about. A car salesman yesterday told me he will never drive across TownBetween, and not just because he is Latino. He said driving there makes him feel like he is in a police lineup, waiting to be grabbed and asked a hundred personal questions, all of them implied accusations. His friends and family feel the same way.

Every department is comprised of individuals, each with his or her own idea of process and decorum. Above and beyond that, however, is an ideal which governs the entire police force. Reputation is a hard-earned coin and not all local law enforcement is administrated with an equal insistence on professionalism and courtesy. You can be the best officer on the roster in a department with a maligned reputation and your efforts will be difficult to trust. But even the “least officer” in a department characterized by a commitment to professionalism will be given the benefit of the doubt. That same “least officer,” reports to a command structure that will not condone or tolerate less than ideal behavior. As a citizen, this is how we learn to trust the police – one interaction at a time. An officer might make a poor decision or act hastily, but his or her peers and superiors will move to make it right. I don’t mind a little confusion or delay if I know I can trust it work out with consistency and fairness. Springdale’s officers represent the spectrum of their community. Mistakes will happen and great departments like Springdale won’t worsen a problem through concealment or deceit; if officers acted that way in the distant past, it might have squeaked by, but not any longer.

When I drive in Springdale, I do not flinch or instinctively hit the brake with so much force that my spare tire flies through the backseat. I expect that every officer I see is operating under a sense of priority and expediency. I also don’t imagine scenarios wherein there is doubt to automatically be interpreted in the most unfavorable light toward me. The police are here to keep us safe and to help us. It doesn’t occur to me that there might be quotas, or that the municipal court is going to do anything other than listen to any potential case to get to the bottom of the issues at hand. I won’t be getting emails from the police chief, ones which like they were written by a third-grader with both writer’s cramp and a lack of oxygen in the room.

When I discuss TownBetween with normal people, the predominant attitude is “Ugh, that place?” Many of these people aren’t miscreants such as me. They are doctors, lawyers, and teachers. They didn’t secretly get together and erroneously decide by cabal that they were going to detest driving in and through TownBetween. Most of the detractors are perplexed because only through sheer accidental geography were they there to begin with. Had a better route been available, they would have availed themselves to it. Guess what? Now many of them refuse to drive through TownBetween, no matter what the circumstances. It’s easier to avoid the bully than to fix the problem. That is what much of Northwest Arkansas does. Meanwhile, TownBetween insists the fog there is brought in by the outsiders and that only those breaking the law complain. (Yes, and you only need aspirin when you have a headache.)

I didn’t intend to water-down any compliment of the Springdale police as a result of my comedic derision of TownBetween. I was attempting to inelegantly say that I look forward to crossing the boundaries of TownBetween with must less frequency. If I want to live dangerously, I will instead stay home and rip the tags off my mattresses. I’ll stay in my borders of Springdale with more glee, waving at the officers I pass, knowing that they won’t assume the worst of us all. I’ve also noted a strange absence of military-style vehicles here.  It has been very nice these last few months not needing to drive through TownBetween if I don’t want to.

TownBetween can continue on its merry way, reinforcing many of the horrid stereotypes that motorists hurl toward the Barney Fife little towns scattered across Arkansas. I’ll be over here, hoping for the day when the little town grows up and gets a police force like the one Springdale has – or gets assimilated by one of the bigger and better police forces.

Meanwhile, I’d propose a bypass around TownBetween, since we can’t dig it up and move it to the 19th century where it would fit in better. I’d like to remind them all that just because you can write a ticket, doesn’t mean you should.  I once got a hilariously bad email from the Chief in TownBetween. He was insisting he couldn’t force his officers to the right thing, even when he knew they hadn’t acted appropriately.

Nothing to See Here

a loan

This bad joke has earned me at least 2 1/2 laughs and groans over the years…

 

.

 

As dumb as Trump sounds, Tom Cotton does 14 layups of hateful idiocy in the time it takes Trump to wash his tiny hands and dribble the ball down court.

.

“There’s no place to eat,” the moron said with great conviction, oblivious to the intrinsically skewed worldview contained in his complaint. (My publicist also told me I needed to focus more on posts that will cause readers to make that ‘WTH’ face as they read them.)

.

If I knew DeAngelo Williams, I’d have an award made, except mine would be funny. I’d walk up and hand it to him and say…. “Here’s your award for participating, DeAngelo.” And drop the mic. And run like hell because he’s a big guy and also because people don’t like their foibles to be pointed out to them.

.

Just to confuse folks, I went into my local Lowe’s and asked where to find ‘bird showers.’ The guy looked at me strangely and said, “Don’t you mean bird baths?” I took a moment and told him, “My birds don’t like to sit down while they are getting clean.” And then marched off. The nerve of some people!

.

smokes on the water (2)

Smokes on the Water

.

 

I was SO hoping that when I clicked the link about the valedictorian from a Louisiana high school being banned for facial hair that it would be a female student! I’m conflicted about the real story. I don’t know whether to be on the side of the student, Andrew Jones, or the doofuses who thought this would be a good idea. Facial hair, like other monumentally important social issues, obviously warrants this kind of excessive response. We can’t have high school graduates with facial hair. Before you know it, they will be like the teachers and school board members with facial hair, and then other adults will be attending the graduations with facial hair. Andrew had facial hair for 4 years. Tangipahoa Parish is a place we need to remind us of how thinking too hard leads to some crazy ideas.

The school principal wouldn’t comment, but it seemed as if he nevertheless talked out of his ass to everyone else off camera.

 

7 on Thursday

Sarcasm and satire are the most delicious tools for commentary; not only because they contain an element of truth, but also because they convey the message with a flourish that delights the sender and befuddles the recipient. Edit: Use sparingly and rarely on friends, as reactions may vary.

head up ass

(*No friends were harmed in the making of this meme…)

.

STORE SIGN SALE

“…Details matter and assumptions are a problem, both in retail & life…” -x

 

.

church choir

Go only where you are wanted? But let your light shine!

.

 

My writing publicist emailed me and told me I hadn’t offended enough people lately & that I need to focus on providing thinly-veiled avenues for the weirdos to seethe about. It’s Malcolm X’s birthday today. Many people forget that he converted to Sunni Islam, the world’s largest religious denomination, a year before his death, after rejecting the Nation of Islam. Naturally, they killed him, which proves no matter what you believe, it is safer to whisper it inside a dark closet. Edit: PS – Like Obama, I’m not muslim, either. And my birth certificate was altered when I changed my name, too, although I’ve never been to Hawaii.

 

 

It’s a Wednesday Kind of Day

inhuman resources

I recently discovered that all managers are hired through a separate super-secret office…

.

“My boss signed up for an ‘Anger Management’ class. He was excited about it until one of his subordinates told him that the premise of the class was that anger was a BAD thing.” -X

.

Here’s another joke that I wrote for someone else, one that either makes you cringe or frown in recognition, based on something that actually happened to me, except for the part about me picking on smaller kids…

Be careful when you tell kids to pay attention. When I was young, I tried out for football. Well, I kicked two smaller kids on the way into the tryouts. The coach acted furious. “Why did you kick those smaller kids?” I couldn’t understand why he was asking, so I told the truth: “Based on the way your players have bullied me, I assumed it was behavior you enjoyed seeing on your team.”

#whysomad

.

A quiet moment to hear the still voice telling you that the world isn’t as fear-filled as you would imagine it to be and that what unites us outweighs our differences….

silence

.

Remember a few weeks ago when I posted about big changes to salary overtime laws? They are coming in December. Labor Secretary Thomas Perez was quoted when asked about some companies doing something stupid such as dropping wages for managers to counteract the new law: “You don’t respond … by lowering their wages. … it’s particularly imprudent to do so with folks who are running the place. It’s inconsistent with rational behavior.” Man, this guy must not have ever worked with the geniuses I’ve worked with. Doing illogical things for a dumb reason or for no reason at all is quite often THE method, rather than the exception.

*Legal Disclaimer: This post in no way refers to the current group of people who collectively may or may not have a say in my employment, wherever that might be. The current group is an elite commando team of incredibly talented and fiscally-minded intellectuals, not subject to the vagaries of satire or criticism.

.

13230160_10209734202851273_5898061548935376051_n

“Discerning felines enjoy the taste of Mapleton Cigarettes, made from both catnip and the hair from old ladies hairbrushes.”

.