How To Escape Jury Duty

Nothing in the world makes me cringe more than the long walk back from the mailbox. This specific walk in particular, while staring at the "Jury Summons" envelope with my name on it. I still remember angrily squeezing the envelope so tight that the paper warped from the moisture of my hands.
"Fuck", I exclaim while slamming it down in the kitchen counter. My cat jumping at the sound, giving me a look as if to say "Chill out, doucher."
Further inspection of the notice prompts even more anger. It informs me, that I’m due at the courthouse in Hammond, Indiana by 8 AM. At the time, I was working the midnight shift for the railroad. 8PM-8AM. Meaning, that I actually have to leave work early and go straight to the courthouse. I come to terms with the situation, and proceed to conjure up a scheme. I'm bitter towards the judicial system. I'd punch Judge Judy in the face if given the opportunity.
Instead, they provide me with a survey to fill out. I'm pissed off, and not taking a cerebral approach to avoiding this. I find a big red crayon, and begin the operation to display myself as a complete inbred bumblefuck.



It was actually cathartic. I assume that they can't select me if I voice complete and utter distain for the government. A small amount of confidence builds, and I start to believe that I might just fingerpop the system.
Finally, the day comes. The night at work wasn't particularly a busy one. I spent most of the night in a forklift, stacking 53 foot chassis in a filthy gravel lot. 6 AM comes along, and it's time to escape. I should go home, shower, shave and put on some queer sweater and attempt to convey the slightest degree of responsibility.
No, that's okay. I decide to go as is, projecting my displeasure of this out of date concept in selecting jurors. Similar to some sort of loser strike. The initial bitterness has returned on a morning where I'd much rather go home, catch some sleep and watch the Cubs game when I awake. I use this to rationalize going to a government building reeking of axel grease, diesel fuel, cigarettes and an amalgamation of body odor and stale deodorant.

I mentally replay my strategy. I decide to put the cherry on top of the sundae, when I roll around in the gravel pit. I smear dirt and grease on my face, as if I'm an Indian chief leading my people into battle. In a rhetorical way, I feel that I am.

I walk in the building amongst a slew of dirty looks. I feel like a homeless man at a Hollywood benefit dinner. At this point, I've also concluded that I will speak in an over-the-top Southern accent. I discover the Confederate flag bandana I barrowed from the legitimately inbred fellow at work. "This will come in handy." I decide.

I arrive in the room, all too reminiscent of high school. Scattered with little desks, a TV in the corner and the podium at the head of the room. I sit down and pass out instantly, ignoring the good-natured conversation from people around me trying to make the best of a bad situation.
After 2 hours of waiting, some fat whore with a moustache shows us the shittiest video ever produced throughout the history of the cosmos. This video depicts jury duty as a 'fun' and 'interesting' process. I giggle incessantly throughout the cheesy interviews and 1990's Saved By The Bell-esq graphics. I catch a dirty look from nearly every direction during this.
"Shh!" Someone says towards me.
I turn around and calmly state, "Be quiet, adults are speaking."
After another 2 hours go by, we finally get shuttled into the courtroom. I'm virtually asleep, next to a younger girl and an older sex-offender looking dude named Vlad. He looks like his daughter should be named 'Amber' after the alert that marked her conception.

I couldn't recall what the girl actually looked like, so my lovely girlfriend Sara will stand in for the sake of art. Consciousness during the process comes and goes until I finally hear my name called.
I may or may not have walked to the jury box with a morning erection. Don’t judge.
I sit down, rub my hands together, and put the Confederate flag bandana on. I see angry faces glaring at me. The room is a melting pot of whites, blacks and Mexicans. I search frantically for a ‘Git R Done’ t-shirt or some flannel, in hopes an actually hillbilly would support me. The slightest bit of embarrassment actually arises.

A reminder, I used a heavy Southern accent during the questioning. The best way I can describe it would be like Boomhower from 'King Of The Hill' or 'The Squidbillies'.
The attorney asks me what my name is.
"A-Rack Fawster."
Where do you live, and for how long?
"Uh, dang ole’ Crohn Point, Ind-Jana. Nan-teen yurs, I reckon."

Have you ever been convicted of a felony?
".....Er......Nuh-Uh!....."
What newspapers of magazines do you subscribe to?
"Well...Ah reckon, Ah get the NRA Weekly, High Times, Spurts Illu-stray-ted, Tahme."
Time? Time Magazine?
"Yeah, Tahme. Aaaand. Oh yeah, that dang ole' Playboy."

The guy next to me, Vlad laughs. His laughter audibly projects through my microphone. I pull the mic closer to me, nearly putting it into my mouth for effect.
"This feller knows wut ah'm talkin' 'bout."
I reach my hand in the air for a high five, but he shakes his head to indicate no. I visually survey the courtroom. The attorney is laughing. The jury box is filled with people's faces buried in their hands. I scan through the smirks, hear giggling, and see people shaking their heads in rejection.

I feel awesome. At this point, I feel that I've convinced the judge and attorney's that I'm a complete hillbilly. I mentally picture them profiling me driving a ridiculously sized Ford truck. Complete with naked chick mud flaps and novelty ballsack dangling from the trailer hitch. Confederate flag waving in the breeze, with "RUSTY" decaled in duct tape across my windshield. Listening to "Freebird" loudly on blown speakers and screaming "THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!" at under aged high school students, while pointing at my genitals. I’d been conceived at my own family reunion, under a picnic table. Brown jugs of moonshine labeled ‘XXX’ scattered across the floor of my trailer. Kool-Aid stains on my favorite wife-beater. Wearing dolphin swim-trunks amongst my outfit including a scruffy beard, and unwashed hair hidden by a Dale Earnhardt Jr. hat. An unhealthy obsession with Ted Nugent, corn dogs, and a yard with a sandbox and swing set, even though I don’t have any kids.
Then I make direct eye contact with the judge. Suddenly, he's a lot more intimidating than I'd initially perceived. I remember mentally referring to him as Judge Fivehead, due to his freak of nature gigantic forehead. I remember seeing the bright lights of the court, and the bailiff’s reflection in his shiny dome. He reminded me of Henry Rollins, with a gigantic neck and those perennially pissed off eyebrows. One of those dudes who punches a hole in the wall with his left hand, while jerking off with the right.

He silences the courtroom, and calls the counsel over. TV static consumes the courtroom as they converse. The judge begins waving his arms around emphatically. Suddenly, the static used to drown out the court ends. A few brief whispers escape, after the noise distortion ceases. I love it when that happens.

Judge Fivehead looks at me. Narrows his eyes, and curls his lip.
"Mr. Foster, please come here."
I stand up, and shuffle past the jury box. The TV static comes back over the courts speaker system. I'm walking slowly, as he gestures at me with his pointer finger.
"I believe you are intentionally trying to evade jury duty."
"Nuh-uh!!!!" I say, as I slam my hand down on bench.
Judge Fivehead begins to sweat. He starts screaming and flailing his arms around like a monkey about to hurl it’s own feces.
"IT IS YOUR DUTY AS AN INDIANA RESIDENT TO BE TRUTHFU-"
"Yew listen here, Judge!", I interrupt him.
"Ah am an 'Merican! If that thur colored Huxtable sold some cocaine, ah want heem t' go to jail just as bad as yew dew! Ah tell you hwut."

I feel my face flush. I realize that the jig is up. Judge Fivehead goes off on a 2 minute tangent in front of the entire court. Tells me that I'm what's wrong with the country, and that I should be ashamed. Tells me about how it’s my duty as a citizen, and that I owe my country. I honestly tone him out, and envision his reaction had I gone with the plan I’d originally orchestrated.

A KKK Grand Dragon with a handful of synthetic toddler dicks, and the freshly severed head of Tila Tequila. THAT would have been out of line. (Other than the decapitation of Tila Tequila. That seems perfectly reasonable.)

A top-hat, monocle, Hitler moustache, sporting a novelty cat t-shirt and a jar of my own urine. Holding a plethora of deviant porno movies, with a balloon and a cockatiel named Osama Bin Jesus on my shoulder. THAT would have been out of line.
Judge Fivehead clearly states that another outburst will result in being held in contempt, and placed under immediate arrest. A little self realization occurs, and I envision myself being used as currency in jail.

I imagine myself being sold to a Suge Knight look-alike for a pack of Newports, a spork, and a weeks worth of fruit cups from the cafeteria. No thanks, I conclude. I can't afford the "Exit Only" tattoo on each respective butt cheek necessary to survive in prison.
"ONE MORE WORD, FOSTER! ONE MORE WORD." Judge Fivehead reiterates.
I put my hands in my pockets, and shamefully walk back to my seat, with my head hanging in excessive shame. I’m more terrified than if I were about to receive a vasectomy from Michael J. Fox.

I whisper to the girl next to me, before the TV static comes to an end over the courtroom. She looks at me with the utmost rejection. Another reason Sara fit this part so well.
The attorneys meet with the judge, and finally the judge tells me that I'm excused. He says this while slamming his fist down in a very animated manner. This almost makes me laugh. Judge Fivehead glares at me as I leave the courtroom. I can see the moisture on his shiny skull. A single bead of sweat runs down his temple. The vein in his necks builds and pulsates.
I'm fairly confident that he beat the shit out of his wife upon his arrival home.

Topping off the domestic assault with a flying elbow drop from the top of the couch. A prominent "OH YEAH!" bellowed through the air as an homage to the Macho Man Randy Savage.
In conclusion, you don't have to serve in a jury. Claim that you disagree with the judicial system, you don't trust police, and that God's justice upon death is more than enough.
There's no need to pretend to be racist. They see it so much, and it's just not believable in this day in age. It's 2009, why would anyone actually be racist, sexist, or homophobic?! It simply doesn't make any sense.
That being said, I saw this etched into the bathroom tile at Moores Bar in Greencastle, Indiana.