Unfortunately, I left my mask at home, and an old pal recognized me.
Judging by their marginally humorous garb, overall homeless appearance and discouragingly depressing conduct, I would estimate that of the 300 people who joined me in the queue this morning at the Airport Courthouse, three were Republicans.
All but three miserably failed the test of dignity.
Circus Must Have Been Here
Ringling Bros. obviously made a pit stop to shed a few slackers.
They must have been bussed in overnight from Pakistan. No way Gen. Musharref would allow them to fight for his side — or for the rebels.
The shabby 297 had to be liberal Democrats or Independents. Heaven did not create that many scurvy looking Republicans in the whole United States.
If your child came home with one of these two-legged booby prizes on his tattooed arm, you would move without disclosing a forwarding address.
Men Are from Mars…
This creepy-crawly crowd may have been proof that re-incarnation is a serious threat to America.
I haven’t resolved which is less desirable:
Standing for 15 minutes among dazed human rabble that appeared to be emerging from a devastating earthquake?
Or listening to a young law enforcement officer apply carefully measured spittle to his newly acquired badge while crudely, insistently, volubly barking crayon-level instructions to adults he feared were incapable of retaining two syllables simultaneously.
Pal, Could You Spare a Farthing?
I am guessing any 35 of them could have
pooled their wallets and easily covered the cost of renting a plain small hamburger from Wendy’s for an hour.
Consider yourself forewarned that you never should commit a crime that will get your case remanded to the Airport Courthouse — unless you are prepared to instantly plea bargain. The shallow jury pool is not worth the risk.
Since sorting through excessive income never was a consideration in my growing-up years, Mom’s next priority was hygiene. “It does not cost anything to be clean,” Mom said with memorable wisdom.
Flunking the Smell Test
This crowd, which must have been in a hurry leaving home, never knew Mom. A soap salesman would have had to pull a Brotman and declare bankruptcy this morning.
If you check the hometown telephone directory, they all must be kin to Barney Rubble.
Somebody please explain to me how male adults north of 18 years old can walk into a U.S. courthouse wearing pants whose material quits within range of their knees.
A Dress Rehearsal Would You Suspect?
Women’s wear gave garishness a bad name. My guess is that the bunch of them assembled on the third floor of the parking garage.
On the count of 42, 979, they all threw their clothes toward the ceiling. When gravity surprised them by prevailing, every doll ended up donning someone else’s apparel, that of a woman who never learned to dress herself.
Have they no shame?
Didn’t their parents introduce them to the remote concepts of dignity and respect?
The Harris-Ansman Case
The occasion for our presence was a hearing for Sgt. Scott Ansman of the National Guard who stands accused of brutally murdering his girlfriend, JoAnn Harris, last Aug. 24 at the Armory on Culver Boulevard.
Incarcerated since the afternoon of the killing, Mr. Ansman, who is married, observed his 35th birthday with a momentary appearance.