Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Beer and Judges

MAJOR mistake on the choice of beer tonight. In the same sense that I've come to expect a wine label that describes the contents as evincing "an oaken finish with notes of chocolate and plum" to taste pretty much like every other goddamned bottle of mediocre plonk on the grocery shelf, so too I've come to brush aside the fine print on the neck-labels of microbrews as so much dandified fluff. I can tell a good stout from a bad one, know how much hoppiness I like in a Pale Ale (less than most beer-snots), and am comfortable enough with my prejudices that I feel no shame in telling you I've never drunk a pilsener-style beer I've liked. Just a taste thing, no biggie.

So when this Otter Creek Middleberry Ale that I poured myself just now, cheerfully blathers about its "hints of blueberries and elderberries," I tend to take that with a grain of salt. Probably doesn't taste much like otters either, dig? What I don't expect when I stick the hooter into the foam is for a pong amazingly reminiscent of something I'd expect to smell in a poorly maintained kindergarten refrigerator, or perhaps a hooker's handbag: A Kool-Aid finish with notes of Bazooka Joe and Crunchberries. Phwooooooey! Sobriety, thy name is Elderberry!

All of which nearly derailed me from my original text tonight, which was the fact that a judge in Oklahoma, the Formerly Honorable Donald Thompson, who was originally charged in 2004 of all manner of bizarre behavior while on the bench, has himself been ordered to stand trial.

The F.H. Thompson was accused by his court reporter, one Lisa Foster, of using a penis pump on himself while presiding over a trial, apparently for purposes of self-gratification. I may be a shade innocent for this kind of reportage, but from what little I know of these devices, which look a bit like a cross between a bicycle pump and a Van de Graaf Generator, they operate on the principle that exposing the male weenus to an intense vacuum for a few minutes while fully erecto potentis will cause it to assume a size fully millimeters larger and a color several shades purpler than normal, thereby impressing the very WonderBra off any Victoria's Secret model still in the room after this display. If this be self-gratification, then I'm off to the harem to volunteer for eunuch duty. I hear the year-end bonuses are great.

"No, look, honey, it's like it's got a huge hickey! Woah! Look at that, it's humong -- Honey? Hey! Where you going...?"

Now those judge's robes are voluminous things, and I wouldn't doubt for a minute that their billowing folds conceal any number of sins -- an adjusted bra here, a deliciously scratched sweaty scrotum there -- but another of Judge Thompson's alleged transgressions has me, a student of human eccentricity who'd put Krafft-Ebbing himself to shame, utterly flummoxed. According to the original charge, filed in June 2004, his court reporter testified that she saw the good judge "holding his penis up and shaving underneath it with a disposable razor while on the bench" (p. 3 of the Petition).

Now, I'm all for a well-tended garden. Let's get that right out in the open, here. I yield to no one in my conviction that a trig appearance is not simply a matter of a plucked eyebrow or the discreet application of the pinking shears to an unruly ear-hair.

But all that self-justification aside, I have a bit of a slog following the Formerly Honorable's thought process on this one. The trouble is, I can easily see, during the deadly dull proceedings of a murder trial in full swing, the old Train of Thought headed for Guttersville at a high rate of speed. It's a frailty I struggle with every day. It's an old dilemma: The Thought is Not the Deed, and that's where His Honor and I part company. For while I have an unbroken track record of success at fighting back the impulse to produce a disposable razor and shave my teabag during a vitally important jurisprudential function, His Honor has, allegedly, not. His Honor has had the perhaps unique experience in human history of noticing that the Garden was not Well Tended while presiding at a murder trial, and concluded that the meet and fitting course of action was to reach back into the Bag o' Bics in the Bag o' Tricks, select the appropriate tool, and Tend the Garden forthwith with neither let nor hindrance, in full view of the (female) Court Reporter.

As I say, I can't pretend to understand the logic at work here, but perhaps a little gedankenexperiment might provide some insight. Perhaps, like modernist authors before us, in the tradition of Leopold Bloom we might try to immerse ourselves in the F.H's inner-monologue...
Foster's Steno again. Good kid, nice caboose, roving eye. Like that, like that. Hope she keeps eyes front tho during Happy Time... Murder's a bitch, ain't it. Swinnnnnngggg... Or do we do that anymore? Not since Capote. Gnn. More like the Pentothal-and-Pavulon cocktail... Pentothal-and-Pavulon, Pentothal-and-Pavulon, doot-doodly-doo... Shit, that defending's got a sweet rack! Nips? See nips? FUCK YEAH nips she's SO READY... Awww, she'd do me in an Omaha minute! Oh christ I need it bad, I'd pay GOOD MONEY for some some Judicial Succour oh fuck....

NUBS. I feel NUBS. Oh man, Imaginary Victoria's Secret Model Number Four (brunette, 6'1", 42DD) ain't gonna fuckin' appreciate NUBS on the Judicial GolfBag.... Bet I can get away with it right here... No. Don't be an idiot yes you can no cant yes you can. Do It. I dare you. I DARE YOU. Foster sees you, it'll just turn her on GO ON DO IT DO IT DO IT DO IT....
You can see how a man might get in trouble...


Bobby Lightfoot said...


Bob Dwire said...

What Bobby Said, in spades.

Plus, what's that wonderful film in which a bewigged English Law Lord is wearing nought but an posing pounch beneath his robes, and retires to his chambers for a spot of flogging? Could be If... or Oh Lucky Man! Or possibly even Clockwork Orange. I can't remember, for the life of me, nor do I seem to be able to find out.

blue girl said...

Oh my God, that is too funny.

Only you could make it that funny.

Mudge said...

Otter Creek - Middlebury - as in Vermont.

Will defend the spelling of the town, cannot defend the beer.

Next time you are in Golden, CO try the Barmen Pilsner. Send me the bill.

XTCfan said...

And now for something not completely different:

(Cut to judges' robing room. Two judges talking in a very camp voice)

First Judge: Well, I was ever so glad they abolished hanging, you know, because that black cap just didn't suit me.

Second Judge: Yes. Do you remember the Glasgow treason trial?

First Judge: Oh yes, I wore a body stocking all through it.

Second Judge: No, hen, with the party afterwards.

First Judge: Oh, that's right. You were walking out with that very butch Clerk of the Court.

Second Judge: That's right. Ooh, he made me want to turn Queen's evidence.

First Judge: Oh, me too. One summing up and I'm anybody's.

Second Judge: Anyway, Bailie Anderson.

First Judge: Ooh, her?

Second Judge: Yes. She's so strict. She was on at me for giving dolly sentences, you know, specially in that arson case.

First Judge: What was the verdict?

Second Judge: They preferred the brown wig.

First Judge: Mm. I love the Scottish Assizes. I know what they mean by a really well-hung jury.

Second Judge: Oohl Get back in the wittess box, you're too sharp to live!

First Judge: I'll smack your little botty!

Second Judge: Ooh! and again.

First Judge: Have you tried that new body rub JP's use?

Second Judge: I had a magistrate in Bradford yesterday.

First Judge: Funnily enough I felt like one in a lunchtime recess today. But the ones I really like are those voice over announcers on the BBC after the programmes are over.

Second Judge: Oh, aye, of course, they're as bent as safety pins.

First Judge: I know, but they've got beautiful speaking voices, haven't they? 'And now a choice of viewing on BBC Television.'

Second Judge: 'Here are tonight's football results.'

First and Second Judges: Mmm.

Kevin Wolf said...

I judge this post VERY FUNNY, and I'm not even wearing a robe. In fact - well, on second thought let's not go there...

paywbfbc - You must pay when you flic your bic.

Neil Shakespeare said...

LOLOL! That's a classic, Neddie! Stick that one in the Judicial Golfbag, buddy! (You write SO good about such BAD things!)

Neddie said...


I can say with some degree of confidence (having been told by my mother, who'd know) that I was conceived in Middlebury, on a ski trip.

Pops forgot to bring the


baltar said...

Yeah, yeah, yeah: judge, razor, robes, courtroom. Fine. Probably happens every day, just the other ones are more subtle about it.

Everybody missed the main question:

Did you drink the beer/beer-like-substance? Or was it just so horrible that the alcohol couldn't save it?

(Oh, and was the Judge using anything shaving-cream-like? Or was this dry?)

Mike Kretzler said...

No room for pilsner, myself.

Anonymous said...

Saw him on Fark yesterday, that's some funky shit. "I swear, baby, that's not my bag!"

Blogger's not happy with my link, but find yourself some of this stuff:

Annapolitan said...

I missed this when reading your NYC offering, so this is late:


(insert Bobby Lightfoot post here)

*smirk* *giggle*
*wipes tears away* *deep breath*

As for the er, pumping device, I submit this for your consideration:

Not one of those "make it bigger/harder/purplier" type of pumps, but one of those "get yer rocks off whilst sitting at the judicial bench" type of pumps.

(My ten years on the internets has been quite an edumacation. All I'm sayin'.)

dybul: when doubling something becomes fatal.