It’s February 29, 2008, the third leap year day that I can recall.  The first was in 9th grade; I realized it was a once in four year thing in Mr. Furlogh’s world history class.  The subsequent was Freshman year of college, the one after that I don’t remember, and now this one.  I’m at jury duty, serving my country’s system of justice and democracy in a room full of scumbags.  They’re scumbags because it’s really early, and the entire room resonates with coughs, ranging in scale and dimension – from dry and shallow ones to deep and mucus filled ones – varying in duration and repetition.  

Ok, so I admittedly had no other images to post. But whatever, this show ruled!

What a strange way to select a jury of my peers.  They are in no way my peers.  Half barely speaks English, most are older, and I have no way of telling who received a proper liberal arts education with a sufficient knowledge of the history of civil disobedience or at least Thoreau’s essay an anarchist practice.  In fact, as soon as I’m called, or however the hell this works, I plan to expound on this subject.  
We were all promised that the court would ensure our jury experience would be a pleasant one.  We watched a movie that outlined the history of juries, from the first jury in Ancient Greece as proposed by Aristotle, to its subsequent revocation by the Romans, to Medieval times when the trial by ordeal was implemented for accused individuals whereby their hands would be cut off or they would be tied up and thrown into a river; if they float, they are guilty; if they sink they are innocent.  I found the film entertaining and informative, but then I always do.  

Finally, when the sassy black man with stylish glasses asked all who do not have the February 29th, 2008 date written on their summons to step up to the podium, an extraordinary number fools obeyed because people’s capacity for stupidity is striking but not surprising.  This, however, in way posed a problem because he succinctly proclaimed that knowing how to read or write in English was not mandatory.  When the Russian interpreter repeated the speech in Russian, five conniving women jumped up, claiming they did not, indeed, possess even an elementary grasp of the language. Sly cunts.   The Russian grandmas bonded instantly, exchanging subtle smiles and nods of Soviet recognition, a tacit principle that once formed the basis of a formidable regime but is today reduced to the clever ability to circumvent the system.   

After hours of questions, inane replies, indifferent civil servants, and a lunch break after which I will finally be questioned about whether a 26 year old JAP should be allowed to claim compensation for injuries she sustained following a taxi accident in which the driver, might I add, was Russian, I decided I sympathize for these obedient system functionaries.  After all, it’s a system that has assured a relatively happy life for most of its many obedient citizens.  

Surprise, Surprise. I was not selected.  I think I like these folks after all for their conviction in the righteousness of a flawed yet inveterate system, though it’s a shame that no one is particularly clever or entertaining at these dutiful happenings.