This week I have to report in for a first-ever, very-important, NYC-transplantation-finalizing rite-of-passaging event. Jury Duty.
When K-Cup first handed me my summons from the mail pile, she offered her condolences. Then I promptly freaked her out by jumping up and down and generally wigging the heck out.
Because even though I know there’s a lot of waiting, and they might not even pick me, and I’m going to have to be exposed to 3Qs and obnoxious people who don’t like their civic responsibilities, I expect jury duty to be AWESOME. Even if it’s boring. This is 1/3 due to having lawyer parents, 1/3 due to 12 Angry Men and 1/3 due to my conviction that most things most people think are boring are actually a reflection on them and not on the thing being dismissed as tedious.
(Re: Those People:
So, I’m psyched. And I plan to dress up, confounding the expectations the jury selectors no doubt have of my slackerly generation, announce my total lack of prejudice to anyone except, you know, mantypes with a sense of self entitlement who think they can just call and then not call and that "I guess you’re mad at me or something" is some kind of apology when clearly it’s NOT, and I OBJECT…..
Maybe this is a better idea:
I’ll keep you guys posted if I’m picked or not. Unless it’s like, top secret and we’re trying James Bond for war crimes. In which case I’ll have to brief you later. Then kill you. Fortunately, thanks to the trial I will definitely know how.