The mispronounce it unsurprisingly.
I tell the judge I cannot serve.
Because I am traveling tomorrow.
She dismisses me.
But I must go back to the pool and wait.
And my anxiety is through the courthouse roof.
I hope I don't have to take a shit while here.
Where do these people evolve from?
And how did their choices and chances.
Bring them here to this juror pool.
Who here has to shit and is holding it?
This is foretaste to a less-than-ideal afterlife.
How did the Irish Elk die off?
But we are still here with our fears?
In this foul year of our lord, two-thousand-twenty-three.
The woman next to me is eating Easter Peeps.
It is 9:02am on April 24th.
Group 1 for Judge Barbara Duffy.
Juror #28, Mr. Boo-ya-nack?
Again, I go through the motion of telling her honor.
That I am traveling "for work" tomorrow.
And she let's me go back to the juror pool.
As my belly starts quaking and making a move.